THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THE  POWER  OF  DANTE 


A 


THE   POWER   OF 
DANTE 

BY 
C.   H.  GRANDGENT,  L.H.D. 

CORRESPONDING  MEMBER  OF  THE  ACCADEMIA  DELLA  CRUSCA 
PROFESSOR  OF  ROMANCE  LANGUAGES  IN  HARVARD  UNIVERSITY 


BOSTON 
MARSHALL   JONES    COMPANY 

MDCCCCXVIII 


Copyright,   igi8 
BY  MARSHALL  JONES  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


Published  October,  1918 


THE     UNIVERSITY    PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


Collage 
Library 


PREFACE 

THIS  book  consists  of  a  series  of  eight  lectures 
delivered  at  the  Lowell  Institute  in  the  autumn  of 
1917.  They  are  here  presented  substantially  as 
they  were  pronounced;  but  I  have  reinforced 
them,  in  some  of  the  thinner  places,  with  material 
drawn  from  a  course  on  "The  Artistry  of  Dante" 
given  by  me  in  the  early  months  of  1918  at  Yale 
University. 

The  translations  are  my  own.  While  most  of 
them  are  new,  some  are  borrowed  from  works 
already  in  print.  For  permission  to  use  the  latter 
I  am  indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  Duffield  &  Co., 
publishers  of  my  Dante  (New  York,  1916),  and 
the  Harvard  University  Press,  which  published 
The  Ladies  of  Dante's  Lyrics  ( Cambridge,  1917). 

C.  H.  G. 

CAMBRIDGE,  June  6,  1918. 


CONTENTS 

LECTURE  PAGE 

I.  FAITH i 

II.  MORALITY 32 

III.  TEMPERAMENT 65 

IV.  EXPERIENCE 94 

V.  VISION 127 

VI.  CONCEPTION 155 

VII.  WORKMANSHIP 186 

VIII.  DICTION    ,  218 


THE  POWER  OF  DANTE 


LECTURE   I 
FAITH 

WHY  am  I  here  to-day,  lecturing  about  a  man 
who  died  some  six  hundred  years  ago?  Why  are 
other  lecturers,  to-day  and  wellnigh  every  day, 
discoursing  of  the  same  man,  so  long  departed, 
and  why  are  people  listening  to  them,  in  so  many 
different  lands?  Why  does  the  press  pour  forth, 
year  after  year,  such  a  flood  of  books  and  articles 
on  Dante  that  it  would  require  a  specialist's  whole 
time  merely  to  keep  track  of  them?  Why  does 
one  man  of  letters  bring  out  a  volume  on  ref- 
erences to  Dante  in  English  literature,  while 
another  writes  a  thick  tome  on  Dante  in  France? 
Why,  during  the  last  century,  have  so  many  emi- 
nent men  in  various  walks  of  life  —  not  only  the 
poet,  the  scholar,  the  critic,  but  the  priest,  the 
jurist,  the  king  —  been  drawn  irresistibly  to  de- 
vote their  best  energies  to  the  increase  or  the 
diffusion  of  knowledge  of  this  same  ancient  Flor- 
entine? Why —  to  pass  from  proofs  obvious  and 
tangible  to  testimony  at  once  more  intimate  and 
more  significant — do  so  many  thousands  of  men 
and  women  at  this  very  day,  —  many  of  them 

[i] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

dwellers  in  lands  far  remote  from  Italy,  many  of 
them  nearly  ignorant  even  of  Dante's  tongue,  - 
still  find  in  his  writings  a  spell  which  binds  them 
ever  closer,  a  solace  which  comforts  when  all 
other  consolation  fails?  What,  in  other  words, 
is  the  source  of  Dante's  enduring  power?  What 
has  given  him  such  a  mighty  hold  on  humanity, 
a  grip  that  time  seems  only  to  strengthen?  To 
answer  in  some  part  these  questions  is  the  purpose 
of  this  series  of  lectures. 

Dante  is  not  a  recent  discovery.  His  power 
began  while  he  was  still  alive,  and  has  lasted  ever 
since.  To  be  sure,  it  was  somewhat  obscured  for 
several  centuries,  but  it  was  never  lost;  and  for 
the  last  hundred  or  hundred  and  fifty  years  it  has 
waxed  almost  continuously.  Commentaries  on 
the  Divine  Comedy  began  appearing  almost  be- 
fore the  poem  was  finished,  and  every  few  years 
thereafter  saw  a  new  one.  Within  half  a  century 
or  so  of  the  poet's  death  a  Dante  professorship 
was  established  in  Florence,  and  its  first  incum- 
bent was  no  less  a  personage  than  Boccaccio. 
Petrarch  complained  that  all  sorts  of  ignorant 
people  were  continually  reciting  passages  of  the 
Divine  Comedy,  as  even  illiterate  Italians  do  still. 

Now,  all  the  admirers  of  Dante  are  not  at- 
tracted by  the  same  things.  Our  poet  was  a  many- 
sided  genius,  who  has  a  message  for  nearly  every- 
one. In  his  own  time  I  believe  he  was  most 
admired — at  least  by  the  educated  class — for 
qualities  that  are  now,  in  the  judgment  of  the 
general  run  of  readers,  among  the  less  attractive. 

[2] 


FAITH 

Certainly  he  was  in  the  fourteenth  century  revered 
as  a  great  teacher,  a  mine  of  philosophical  and 
theological  lore.  Like  Virgil,  his  master,  he  came 
to  be  regarded  as  the  wisest  man  of  his  epoch,  a 
prodigy  of  recondite  learning.  Like  Virgil,  too, 
he  was  even  supposed  by  some  to  be  a  sorcerer,  an 
imputation  to  which,  in  those  days,  any  extraor- 
dinary scholar  was  liable.  Learned  and  wise 
he  truly  was;  an  indefatigable  student,  eager  to 
impart  to  mankind  his  hard-won  stores ;  a  close 
and  subtle  thinker,  with  a  strong  bent  for  abstract 
doctrine;  an  accomplished  astronomer,  fond  of 
setting  his  reader  intricate  scientific  puzzles.  But 
all  this  erudition  and  speculation,  which  appealed 
so  mightily  to  the  utilitarian  and  argumentative 
spirit  of  his  contemporaries  and  immediate  fol- 
lowers, usually  appears  to  modern  readers  dry 
and  tiresome,  and  much  of  it  is  skipped  by  the 
profane.  We  are  utilitarian  enough,  to  be  sure; 
but  the  greater  part  of  Dante's  erudition  has  lost 
its  immediate  utility,  and  most  of  his  philosophy 
seems  to  the  uninitiated  to  be  out  of  key  with 
present-day  modes  of  thought. 

Virgil  and  Ovid  were,  in  Dante's  day,  held  in 
high  repute  as  allegorists,  and  were  eagerly 
studied  for  the  intricate  hidden  lessons  that  might 
be  extracted  from  their  verses.  Dante  really  was 
an  allegorist,  and  as  such  was  justly  esteemed. 
But  his  early  commentators  read  into  his  work,  as 
into  that  of  Ovid  and  Virgil,  all  sorts  of  minute 
secondary  meanings  that  were  not  there.  Just  as 
Christian  preachers,  from  time  immemorial,  have 

[3] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

given  to  separate  verses  in  the  Bible  any  signi- 
ficance that  might  at  the  moment  suit  their  fancy, 
so  Dante  expositors  have  found  in  single  phrases 
and  incidents  of  their  author  whatever  their  par- 
ticular hobby  suggested.  This  practice  has  con- 
tinued, both  for  the  Bible  and  for  the  Divine 
Comedy,  down  to  our  own  day.  But  in  the 
fourteenth  century  the  interpretations  of  both 
books  nearly  always  took  an  allegorical  turn.  At 
present,  generally  speaking,  we  care  little  for  al- 
legory, which,  when  it  does  not  bore  us,  puzzles 
and  baffles  us.  Probably  few  modern  readers  of 
Dante  are  really  interested  in  his  symbolism,  ex- 
cept in  its  broadest  outlines. 

Two  attributes,  then,  which  fascinated  Dante's 
contemporaries  —  utility  and  symbolic  inventive- 
ness—  have  lost  a  large  portion  of  their  spell. 
But  there  are  enough  left;  and  some  of  them,  no 
doubt,  are  more  effective  to-day  than  they  were 
six  hundred  years  ago.  His  uncompromising  faith 
and  his  rigid  code  of  morals  have  now  become  so 
rare  as  to  assume  the  interest  of  strangeness, 
whereas  in  the  author's  own  era  they  were  matters 
of  course.  His  pronounced  temperament  is  prob- 
ably more  appreciated  in  our  epoch  of  aggressive 
individualism  than  in  his  own  communal  age. 
The  course  of  his  life,  which  furnished  him  with 
the  experience  that  he  translated  into  poetry,  seems 
nowadays  extraordinarily  diversified,  but  was  nor- 
mal enough  then.  The  clearness  and  compre- 
hensiveness of  both  his  physical  and  his  intel- 
lectual sight  are  a  wonder  fit  to  appeal  potently 

[4] 


FAITH 

to  the  fourteenth  century  as  to  the  twentieth; 
possibly  the  twentieth,  which  has  been  schooled  by 
a  long  series  of  intervening  talents  to  follow  the 
higher  flights  of  the  imagination,  contemplates  this 
wonder  more  intelligently  than  did  the  fourteenth. 
As  to  the  deep  symbolism  of  his  primal  concep- 
tion, and  the  unparalleled  unity  and  symmetry 
with  which  he  developed  it,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that,  on  the  whole,  the  fourteenth  century  readers 
were  more  competent  judges  than  the  twentieth 
century  public;  partly  because,  having  far  less  to 
read  than  the  people  of  our  day,  they  read  more 
closely  and  thoughtfully;  partly  because  symbol- 
ism and  symmetry  were  ever  before  them,  mystic 
symbolism  as  the  basis  of  their  religious  service 
and  their  whole  outlook  on  the  world,  richly 
diversified  symmetry  as  the  underlying  principle 
of  their  eccleciastical  architecture  at  a  time  when 
the  church  was  the  one  great  meeting-place  of  the 
community.  On  the  other  hand,  I  believe  that  the 
really  sympathetic  specialist  of  to-day  compre- 
hends the  poet's  conception  more  clearly  than  did 
the  best  qualified  specialist  of  the  Trecento;  I  be- 
lieve that  Longfellow,  Charles  Eliot  Norton, 
Edward  Moore,  alien  though  they  were  in  race, 
time,  and  faith,  grasped  Dante's  fundamental 
idea  more  closely  than  did  Boccaccio  or  Ben- 
venuto  da  Imola,  the  reason  being  that  the  modern 
interpreters  possessed  a  broader  experience  in 
literature  and  had  at  their  disposal  the  results 
of  centuries  of  study  of  their  author.  Dante's 
technical  skill  —  his  use  of  harmony  and  contrast, 

[5] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

suspense,  surprise,  climax,  of  metaphor  and  simile, 
his  choice  of  words  —  was  as  astounding  to  his 
age  as  it  is  to  ours;  even  more  astounding,  because 
it  was  then  something  quite  unprecedented  in 
modern  literature.  Though  Dante  as  a  crafts- 
man is  still  unsurpassed,  he  has  in  the  course  of 
six  centuries  found  a  few  fellows;  in  his  own  day 
he  had  none  nearer  than  Virgil  and  Ovid,  who 
were  thirteen  hundred  years  away. 

It  is  to  these  elements  of  Dante's  power  that 
I  intend  to  devote  my  eight  lectures :  Faith,  Mo- 
rality, Temperament,  Experience,  Vision,  Concep- 
tion, Workmanship,  Diction.  I  hope  by  the  dis- 
cussion of  these  themes,  and  especially  by  the 
citation  of  illustrative  passages  from  the  author 
hmself,  to  throw  some  light  on  the  secret  of  the 
lasting  poetic  supremacy  of  a  man  who  not  only 
lived  six  hundred  years  ago,  but  distinctly  belonged 
to  his  own  epoch  —  an  epoch  whose  ideas  and 
interests  seem  so  remote  from  ours. 

Before  I  enter  upon  the  subject  of  Faith,  which 
is  to  be  my  text  to-day,  I  must  make  one  more 
preliminary  remark.  I  spoke,  a  moment  ago,  of 
the  diverse  habits  of  reading  in  the  Middle  Ages 
and  now.  Remember  this:  Dante  must  be  read 
in  the  medieval  way.  He  must  be  read  slowly 
(if  possible,  aloud),  intently,  ponderingly,  re- 
peatedly. Whosoever  tries  to  speed  through  him 
as  one  rushes  through  the  season's  best  seller, 
gets  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing.  We  have  al- 
most lost  the  art  of  reading.  So  prodigious  is  the 
mass  of  printed  matter  which  year  by  year,  month 

[6] 


FAITH 

by  month,  day  by  day,  obtrudes  itself  on  our  at- 
tention, and  with  which  we  feel  in  some  fashion 
obliged  to  acquire  at  least  a  semblance  of  famili- 
arity, that  we  have  formed  the  habit  of  skimming, 
of  leaping  from  peak  to  peak,  instead  of  following 
the  road  up  hill  and  down  dale;  and  honest, 
thorough  perusal  has  for  most  of  us  become  nearly 
inpossible.  Chief  blame  for  our  mental  degen- 
eracy falls  on  the  daily  paper,  —  I  say  nothing 
of  the  Sunday  paper,  which  contains  no  news  and 
therefore  need  corrupt  only  those  willing  to  be 
corrupted,  —  but  the  daily  paper,  which  we  have 
to  examine,  to  learn  what  is  going  on  in  the  world, 
-  the  daily  paper,  which,  with  its  preposterous 
bulk,  its  interminable  long-windedness,  its  chaotic 
arrangement,  forces  us  to  practice  every  day  for 
an  hour  or  so  a  system  of  violent  intellectual 
gymastics  adopted  by  us  for  the  purpose  of  win- 
nowing the  few  grains  of  corn  which  we  assume 
to  be  there  from  the  enormous  mass  of  chaff 
which  we  know  is  there.  That  is,  we  engage  every 
day  on  a  struggle  to  extricate  from  a  formless  and 
mostly  void  heap  of  print  the  few  things  we  want 
while  reading  just  as  little  as  possible  of  the  things 
that  are  of  no  interest.  This  method,  slightly 
relaxed,  we  carry  into  our  perusal  of  the  weekly 
short-story  periodical,  to  which  we  have  been 
lured  by  the  illustrations.  With  only  a  little 
diminution  of  tenseness,  we  apply  it  to  the  monthly 
magazine.  Then,  if  we  ever  have  time  to  read  a 
book,  the  habit  has  become  such  a  second  nature 
that  we  find  ourselves  dodging  from  page  to  page, 

[7] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

from  chapter  to  chapter,  breathless,  cramped,  un- 
enlightened, and  unamused.  How  happy  were  the 
people  of  the  Middle  Ages,  most  of  whom  could 
not  read  at  all,  while  those  who  possessed  the  art 
could  devote  an  undisturbed  lifetime  to  the  five- 
foot  shelf,  studying  their  choice  authors  phrase 
by  phrase,  reflecting,  turning  back,  unconsciously 
committing  to  memory  —  something  as  we  (I 
mean  those  of  us  who  have  lived  half  a  century 
and  more)  used  in  our  childhood  to  peruse  the 
Bible  and  Shakespeare  and  Dickens.  The  prac- 
tice of  real  communion  with  an  author,  which  until 
our  own  generation  has  been  the  chief  delight  and 
the  chief  education  of  cultivated  people,  has  well- 
nigh  disappeared.  It  can  be  restored  only  by  a 
firm  resolve,  on  the  part  of  the  seekers  for  light, 
to  devote  a  certain  portion  of  their  week  or  their 
year  to  quiet  concentration  upon  some  writer 
whose  unquestioned  greatness  is  sure  to  repay 
them  for  the  precious  time  thus  spent.  The  tend- 
ency to  half-attentive  fleetriess  can  be  counter- 
acted in  some  measure  by  reading  aloud.  To  me 
it  seems  —  as  it  has  seemed  to  many  others,  better 
judges  than  I  —  that  among  the  authors  who  best 
reward  such  sacrifice  Dante  stands  preeminent. 

I  may  be  mistaken,  but  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  the  same  superficiality  which  vitiates  our  read- 
ing is  apparent  in  our  religion.  I  do  not  mean 
that  most  of  those  who  profess  religion  (of  course 
vast  numbers  nowadays  make  no  such  profession) 
are  insincere.  I  mean  that  very  generally  their 
faith  is  not  a  constant,  vital  force  in  their  lives, 

[8] 


FAITH 

determining  or  at  least  influencing  their  every  act 
and  every  thought.  More  and  more  we  take  our 
articles  of  belief  in  a  Pickwickian  sense,  if  we 
think  of  them  at  all;  and  when  there  comes  among 
us  a  revivalist  who  really  accepts  in  all  literalness 
the  dogmas  to  which  he,  in  common  with  millions 
of  others,  has  subscribed,  he  seems  grotesque. 
And  yet  there  is  a  very  widespread  craving  for 
some  absolute  faith  —  a  craving  deep  but  usually 
unspoken,  often  unconscious.  How  many  of  our 
fellow  countrymen,  when  cut  adrift  from  their 
traditional  religious  support,  are  eager  to  clutch 
at  any  straw  of  supernatural  comfort !  How 
many  strange,  uncouth  churches  and  sects  have 
sprung  up  and  flourished  among  us,  testifying  to  a 
persistent  hunger  for  the  "  bread  of  the  angels," 
for  spiritual  teaching,  for  assured  truth ! 

This  underlying  need  is,  I  think,  accountable, 
to  some  extent,  for  the  strong  reaction  produced 
by  the  Divine  Comedy  on  so  many  men  who  do 
not  pass  for  religious.  In  Dante  they  see  a  great 
intelligence,  admired  for  centuries,  an  absolutely 
authentic  and  undoubted  genius,  whose  faith  in 
the  revealed  word  of  God  is  unwavering,  to  whom 
the  doctrines  of  his  Church  are  even  more  real 
than  the  events  and  the  people  of  this  mortal 
world  which  he  knew  so  well.  Such  an  example 
is  encouraging  to  one  who  longs  for  faith,  yet  has 
been  checked  by  the  suspicion  that  faith  dwells 
with  babes  and  simpletons  alone.  No  one  need 
fear  shame  at  doing  what  a  Dante  did,  or  bowing 
to  what  a  Dante  revered,  or  worshiping  as  a 

[9] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Dante  prayed.  Even  to  him  who  cannot  believe, 
the  spectacle  of  such  a  staunch  believer  is  reassur- 
ing, especially  if  that  believer  be  a  man  of  evi- 
dently superior  intellectual  power.  As  to  the 
reader  who  is  already  devout,  he  finds  in  Dante 
a  fellow  and  a  champion  after  his  own  heart,  a 
comrade  who  corroborates  his  credence  before  his 
own  eyes  and  justifies  it  in  the  eyes  of  others. 
Both  to  the  religious  and  to  the  superficially  irre- 
ligious our  poet  offers,  then,  the  comfort  of  a 
stalwart  faith. 

No  mental  reservation  impairs  Dante's  accept- 
ance of  divine  authority.  Not  a  backward  look 
does  he  cast  when  he  entrusts  himself  to  its  keep- 
ing. "  No  man,  having  put  his  hand  to  the 
plough,  and  looking  back,  is  fit  for  the  kingdom 
of  God."  When,  on  his  allegorical  journey, 
Dante  reaches  with  Virgil,  his  guide,  the  gate  of 
Purgatory,  the  angelic  keeper  warns  the  travelers 
of  their  danger: 

The  angel  pusht  the  sacred  portal  wide, 
And  said :  "  Now  enter,  but  I  caution  you 
That  he  who  looks  behind  must  go  outside." 

When  we  had  past  the  open  portal  thro',  — 
A  rusty  gate,  because  the  greed  of  men 
Maketh  to  them  the  crooked  way  look  true,  — 

My  hearing  told  me  it  was  closed  again ; 
And  if  I  had  allowed  mine  eyes  to  turn, 
Whatever  could  my  fault  have  mended  then? 

Through  Purgatory,  Dante  mounts  to  Heaven, 
and  there,  in  the  starry  sphere,  he  undergoes  an 
examination  in  the  three  Christian  virtues  by  their 
[10] 


FAITH 

accepted  representatives,  St.  Peter,  St.  James,  and 
St.  John,  who  question  him  respectively  on  Faith, 
Hope,  and  Love.  Behold  him,  introduced  by  his 
guide,  in  the  presence  of  St.  Peter,  who  appears 
only  as  a  great  light.  "  Even  as  the  candidate, 
before  the  master  puts  the  question,  prepares  his 
defense  in  silence  (to  debate  the  problem,  not  to 
decide  it),  so,  while  Beatrice  was  speaking,  I  was 
equipping  myself  with  every  argument,  to  be  ready 
for  so  great  an  examiner  and  so  great  a  profes- 
sion. 'Speak,  good  Christian!  declare  thyself! 
What  is  faith?  '  At  that  I  lifted  my  brow  toward 
the  light  whence  these  words  were  breathed.  Then 
I  turned  to  Beatrice,  who  quickly  signaled  to  me 
that  I  should  pour  forth  the  water  of  my  soul's 
fountain.  'May  that  grace,'  I  began,  'which 
grants  me  the  privilege  of  confessing  to  the  high 
commander,  lend  clear  expression  to  my  ideas!' 
Then  I  continued:  'O  father,  as  hath  been  writ- 
ten for  us  by  the  truthful  pen  of  thy  dear  brother, 
who,  with  thee,  brought  Rome  into  the  line  of 
righteousness,  faith  is  the  substance  of  things 
hoped  for  and  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen. 
This  seemeth  to  me  to  be  its  essence.'  Thereupon 
I  heard:  'Right  is  thy  thought,  if  thou  under- 
standest  well  why  he  [St.  Paul]  classed  faith  first 
among  substances,  then  among  evidences.'  And 
I  followed  with  my  answer:  'The  deep  things 
which  I  am  here  allowed  to  behold  are  so  hidden 
from  men's  eyes  on  earth  that  their  existence, 
down  below,  abides  in  belief  alone,  whereof  our 
profound  hope  is  built;  and  therefore  it  falleth 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

into  the  category  of  substance.  Moreover,  from 
this  same  belief  men  are  compelled  to  argue,  with- 
out other  proof;  and  therefore  it  belongeth  to  the 
class  of  evidences.'  Then  I  heard:  '  If  all  that  is 
learned  as  doctrine,  down  on  earth,  were  so  clearly 
understood,  there  would  be  no  place  for  the  cun- 
ning of  the  sophist.'  This  was  breathed  from  that 
flaming  love,  which  then  added:  'Already  have 
the  fineness  and  the  weight  of  this  coin  been  in- 
spected carefully  enough;  but  tell  me  whether  thou 
hast  it  in  thy  purse.'  And  I  replied:  '  Yes,  I  have 
it,  so  round  and  bright  that  nothing  in  its  stamp  is 
obscure  to  me.'  From  the  deep  light  that  was 
glowing  there,  issued  next  these  words :  '  This 
precious  jewel,  foundation  of  all  virtues,  whence 
came  it  to  thee?'  'The  broad  shower  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,'  said  I,  '  which  is  spread  on  the  old 
parchments  and  the  new,  is  a  syllogism  which 
hath  proved  it  to  me  so  sharply  that,  in  compari- 
son, every  other  demonstration  appeareth  dull  to 
me.'  '  The  old  and  the  new  premise,'  I  then 
heard,  '  which  lead  thee  to  this  conclusion,  why 
dost  thou  accept  them  as  the  word  of  God?' 
'The  proof  that  reveals  the  truth  to  me,'  said  I, 
'is  in  the  works  performed  [the  miracles],  for 
which  nature  never  heated  iron  or  struck  anvil.' 
'  Speak !  '  was  the  answer :  '  what  warrant  hast 
thou  that  these  works  really  occurred?  Thine 
only  pledge  is  the  very  writ  which  is  to  be  tested.' 
'If  the  world,'  I  said,  'turned  to  Christianity 
without  miracles,  this  one  marvel  is  so  great  that 
all  the  others  are  but  the  hundredth  part.  For 

[12] 


FAITH 

thou  didst  come  poor  and  hungry  into  the  field  to 
sow  that  plant  of  righteousness,  which  once  was 
a  vine  but  now  is  turned  to  a  briar.' 

"  When  this  was  ended,  that  holy  court  on  high 
reechoed  through  the  circles  with  Te  Deum  lauda- 
mus,  to  the  tune  that  is  sung  up  yonder.  And  that 
chief  who  already,  in  his  examination,  had  drawn 
me  from  branch  to  branch  [of  doctrine]  so  far 
that  we  were  now  close  to  the  topmost  leaves  [of 
the  tree],  began  once  more:  'The  grace  that 
fondles  thy  mind  hath  opened  thus  far  thy  lips  as 
they  should  be  opened,  wherefore  I  approve  of 
that  which  hath  come  forth;  but  now  it  behooves 
thee  to  state  what  thou  believest,  and  whence  it 
came  to  thy  belief.'  '  O  holy  father,'  I  began, 
'  O  spirit  who  now  beholdest  that  which  once  thou 
didst  believe  so  firmly  as  to  outstrip  the  younger 
feet  into  the  sepulcher,  thou  wouldst  have  me 
declare  the  essence  of  my  unhesitating  belief,  and 
thou  hast  asked  also  for  the  cause  of  it.  Now  this 
is  my  reply:  I  believe  in  one  God,  single  and  eter- 
nal, who,  unmoved  himself,  moveth  all  the  heavens 
with  love  and  with  longing.  And  for  such  belief 
I  not  only  have  proofs  physical  and  metaphysical, 
but  I  receive  it  also  from  the  truth  that  hath 
been  showered  down  from  Heaven  by  Moses,  by 
prophets  and  psalms,  by  the  Gospels,  and  by  you 
[Apostles]  who  did  write,  after  the  glowing  spirit 
made  you  holy.  And  I  believe  in  three  eternal 
Persons;  and  these  I  believe  to  be  an  entity  so  one 
and  yet  so  threefold  that  it  admits  of  a  construc- 
tion with  are  or  is.  The  mysterious  divine  nature 

[  13] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

whereof  I  now  speak  is  stamped  upon  my  mind 
more  than  once  by  the  teaching  of  the  Evangel. 
This  is  the  beginning;  this  is  the  spark  that  pres- 
ently swells  into  a  lusty  flame,  and  sparkles  in  me 
like  a  star  in  the  sky.'  ' 

E'en  as  a  lord,  receiving  joyous  word, 
Thanketh  the  bearer,  to  his  bosom  prest, 
As  soon  as  he  the  messenger  hath  heard, 

Thus  me  the  saint  melodiously  blest, 

Three  times  encircling  me,  when  I  was  done  — 
That  apostolic  light,  at  whose  behest 

I  told  my  creed,  which  such  approval  won. 

This  curious  passage  (the  last  few  lines  of 
which  I  have  tried  to  translate  into  verse)  likens 
Dante's  colloquy  with  St.  Peter  in  the  skies  to  an 
examination  for  the  doctor's  degree,  the  candidate 
being  catechized  by  the  professor.  The  subse- 
quent tests  in  hope,  administered  by  St.  James, 
and  in  love,  conducted  by  St.  John,  are  less  formal 
and  less  severe.  Allegorically,  Dante  conceives 
of  himself  as  being  at  this  stage  of  his  experience 
qualified  for  the  highest  flight  of  religious  con- 
templation—  for  entrance  into  the  realm  of  pure 
spirit,  above  the  stars  —  by  his  proficiency  in  the 
three  essential  virtues  of  Christianity,  which,  no 
doubt,  he  now  grasps  with  firmer  certainty  than 
ever  before. 

In  his  literal  conception  of  Paradise,  Dante 
thought  of  certainty  as  constituting  one  of  its 
eternal  joys.  Those  doctrines  which  on  earth  are 
received  as  a  matter  of  faith,  beyond  our  thorough 
comprehension,  those  mysteries  which  are  far  out 

[14] 


FAITH 

of  the  reach  of  mortal  penetration,  shall  in  Heaven 
be  as  clear  as  any  axiom,  as  the  simplest  geo- 
metrical proposition,  as  the  plainest  object  our 
eyes  behold.  Those  problems  which  so  torment 
us  by  constantly  whetting  our  intellectual  curiosity 
shall  be  solved  for  us;  our  thirst  for  knowledge 
shall  be  satisfied. 

During  the  poet's  mystic  progress  through  the 
heavens  he  continually  receives  from  Beatrice, 
and  from  the  other  spirits  he  encounters,  instruc- 
tion in  the  abstruse  problems  of  philosophy,  ethics, 
and  theology.  These  fictitious  discussions,  which, 
as  I  have  said,  often  enough  seem  uninteresting 
to  the  modern  reader,  were  surely  a  delight  to 
their  author  as  he  invented  them.  To  him  they 
must  have  been  as  a  foretaste  of  the  real  life  after 
death.  Among  other  things,  he  learns  why  it  is 
that  all  the  souls  in  Paradise  are  perfectly  con- 
tented, although  they  do  not  all  enjoy  the  same 
degree  of  blessedness :  it  is  because  each  is  blest  to 
its  utmost  capacity  for  beatitude,  and  also  because 
the  greatest  happiness  for  every  one  is  the  con- 
sciousness of  conformity  to  the  maker's  intent. 
He  is  taught  that  injustice  in  God's  decrees  is  not 
only  impossible,  but  a  downright  contradiction  of 
terms;  for  what  we  call  justice  is  only  another 
name  for  the  divine  will. 

Now  wilt  thou  sit  upon  the  bench,  O  man, 
To  judge  of  things  a  thousand  miles  away 
With  eyes  that  cannot  see  beyond  a  span  ? 

But  (we  may  ask,  in  our  presumption)  how  can 
it  be  just  that  a  virtuous  pagan,  who  has  never 

[15] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

heard  of  Christ,  should  be  damned  for  not  being 
a  Christian? 

A  man,  thou  sayst,  is  born  on  Indus'  strand 
And  none  there  is  the  tale  of  Christ  to  read 
Nor  write  nor  preach  abroad,  in  all  the  land. 

Upright  is  he  in  every  wish  and  deed 
And,  in  so  far  as  human  wit  can  tell, 
A  sinless  life  in  act  and  word  doth  lead. 

He  dieth  unbaptized,  an  infidel. 

If  he  believe  not,  how  is  he  to  blame? 
What  kind  of  justice  sendeth  him  to  Hell? 

The  answer  is  this :  although  Heaven  cannot 
be  won  without  faith  in  Christ,  such  faith  may  be 
miraculously  inspired  in  a  worthy  pagan  by  divine 
grace.  And  Dante  invents  as  an  example  the 
salvation  of  the  Trojan  prince  Ripheus,  an  ob- 
scure character  in  Virgil's  dEneid,  described  as 
the  most  just  and  scrupulous  of  his  countrymen. 
That  soul,  the  poet  is  told,  "  moved  by  grace 
which  flows  from  so  deep  a  font  that  no  created 
sight  ever  fathomed  it  to  the  bottom,  bent  all  its 
love,  here  below,  on  justice;  wherefore,  proceed- 
ing from  grace  to  grace,  God  opened  its  eyes  to 
our  future  redemption.  And  the  soul  believed 
therein,  and  after  that  no  longer  could  endure 
the  stench  of  paganism,  but  rebuked  his  people 
for  their  perversity."  The  three  Christian  virtues 
were  his  baptism,  more  than  a  thousand  years 
before  men  were  baptized.  "  O  predestination," 
cry  the  heavenly  spirits  that  have  expounded  this 
truth  to  Dante,  "  0  predestination,  how  distant  is 
thy  root  from  those  minds  which  see  not  the 
primal  cause  entire!  Ye  mortals,  hold  your  judg- 
[16] 


FAITH 

ments  in  reserve;  for  we,  who  see  God,  do  not  yet 
know  all  the  elect." 

Predestination  is  a  problem  that  never  can  be 
completely  solved,  even  in  Paradise.  The  mind 
of  God,  more  profound  than  any  created  intelli- 
gence, can  be  fully  understood  only  by  itself.  To 
the  purest  of  the  blest,  even  to  the  highest  of  the 
angels,  the  divine  purpose  is  only  partially  ap- 
parent. But  this  ignorance  does  not  disturb  their 
bliss;  for  what  God  wills,  they  will.  One  thing, 
then,  Dante  can  never  hope  to  comprehend  —  the 
secret  of  the  plan  of  salvation.  Why  has  the  Lord 
made  one  vessel  unto  honor,  another  unto  dis- 
honor? How  can  God's  foresight  and  omnipo- 
tence be  reconciled  with  man's  absolute  freedom 
and  responsibility  ?  For  the  individual  human  will 
is  free:  it  has  the  choice  between  good  and  evil, 
it  has  conscience  to  guide  it,  it  has  opportunity  to 
achieve  salvation.  If  it  fails,  the  fault  is  its  own. 
How  this  can  be,  in  spite  of  the  foreknowledge  of 
its  maker,  is  a  mystery  that  quite  transcends  the 
created  mind. 

By  "predestination"  Dante  means,  not  the 
foredooming  of  certain  souls  to  Hell,  but  the  en- 
dowment of  all  souls,  as  they  are  made  by  God  at 
the  moment  of  the  birth  of  the  body,  with  distinct 
and  different  degrees  of  spiritual  vision.  All  have 
sight  enough  to  steer  their  course,  if  they  make  the 
best  of  what  they  have;  but  some  see  better  than 
others.  Now,  if  the  soul,  by  its  own  effort,  gains 
admission  to  Paradise,  the  kind  of  happiness  it  is 
destined  to  enjoy  depends  upon  the  clearness  of 

[17] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

this  sight.  Heavenly  spirits  all  see  God,  but  they 
see  him  diversely;  and  their  beatitude  is  accord- 
ingly diverse.  "  In  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions."  Joy  results  from  intensity  of  love, 
and  that  results  from  intensity  of  vision,  a  prod- 
uct of  grace.  This  doctrine  of  predestination  is 
the  dominant  note  of  the  Paradiso,  as  free  will 
is  the  leading  theme  of  the  Purgatorio.  Dante 
goes  so  far  as  to  apply  it  even  to  babes  that  die 
before  exercising  their  will.  In  his  Heaven  their 
seats  are  graded  at  different  elevations  —  a  sym- 
bol of  different  grades  of  blessedness  —  according 
to  the  primal  sight  bestowed  on  them. 

The  mysteries  that  are  to  become  clear  as  day, 
as  soon  as  we  shall  be  released  from  the  flesh,  are 
of  a  different  nature,  in  that  they  do  not  involve 
a  sounding  of  the  mind  of  God.  When  Dante 
declared  to  St.  Peter  the  substance  of  his  creed, 
you  observed  that  it  consisted  of  only  two  articles : 
"  I  believe  in  one  God,  single  and  eternal,  who, 
unmoved  himself,  moveth  all  the  heavens  .  .  . 
And  I  believe  in  three  eternal  Persons;  and  these 
I  believe  to  be  an  entity  so  one  and  yet  so  three- 
fold that  it  admits  of  a  construction  with  are  or 
is."  The  first  doctrine,  then,  is  that  of  the  unity 
and  the  universality  of  God,  the  one  primal  power 
of  the  universe,  unchanging  and  eternal.  That 
the  Creator  can  remain  indivisible  and  at  the  same 
time  contain  all  things,  appears  to  the  mortal 
understanding  an  irreconcilable  contradiction;  but 
to  the  eye  of  the  spirit  there  is  no  inconsistency. 
When  the  poet's  heavenly  journey  culminates  in 
[18] 


FAITH 

the  direct  vision  of  God,  the  divine  nature  is  re- 
vealed to  him,  although  afterwards  he  can  remem- 
ber nothing  save  that  for  one  instant  he  under- 
stood. "  O  Grace  abounding,  which  gave  me 
courage  to  pierce  with  my  eyes  the  eternal  splendor 
until  my  mortal  sight  was  quenched!  Contained 
within  its  depths  I  saw,  bound  by  love  into  a  single 
volume,  all  that  is  scattered  through  the  pages  of 
the  universe,  substance  and  accident  and  their 
operation,  so  fused  together,  as  it  were,  that  the 
thing  whereof  I  speak  is  one  simple  light.  I  be- 
lieve I  did  behold  the  universal  principle  of  this 
union,  because,  as  I  speak  these  words,  I  feel  an 
ampler  sense  of  satisfaction."  Another  apparent 
contradiction  is  involved  in  the  second  clause,  the 
doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  the  three  in  one,  which 
Dante  pictures  as  three  circles  of  three  different 
colors  but  occupying  exactly  the  same  space. 

In  these  two  articles  is  carried  implicitly  all  the 
rest  of  Christian  dogma :  creation,  original  sin, 
redemption.  And  the  doctrine  of  redemption  im- 
plies a  third  mystery  beyond  earthly  —  but  not 
heavenly  —  understanding,  the  union  of  two  na- 
tures in  the  Redeemer.  In  Dante's  Garden  of 
Eden,  Christ  is  portrayed  allegorically  as  a  griffin, 
which  is  one  single  creature  composed  of  an  eagle 
and  a  lion:  the  eagle,  monarch  of  the  air,  rep- 
resents the  divine  nature;  the  lion,  king  of  beasts, 
the  human.  Each  is  perfectly  distinct,  yet  the 
two  form  but  one.  Within  the  glowing  orb  of 
day  many  souls,  brighter  than  the  sun  itself,  are 
singing  together,  as  the  ancients  used  to  sing  their 

[19] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

songs  of  praise  to  Bacchus  and  Apollo.  But  there, 
says  Dante,  "  the  chant  was  not  of  Bacchus,  no 
Paean  was  it,  but  a  song  of  three  Persons  in  the 
divine  nature,  and  of  the  divine  and  the  human 
nature  in  one  Person."  Again  the  same  souls  lift 
up  their  voices:  "That  One  and  Two  and  Three 
which  liveth  forever  and  forever  reigneth  in  Three 
and  Two  and  One,  not  circumscribed  but  circum- 
scribing all,  was  thrice  sung  by  each  of  those  spirits 
with  a  melody  that  would  be  a  sufficient  reward 
for  any  merit."  Let  us  go  back  to  the  beginning 
of  the  poet's  celestial  journey.  Accompanied  by 
Beatrice,  he  quits  the  earth,  and,  darting  into  the 
skies,  penetrates  the  moon.  Like  St.  Paul,  he  is 
not  sure  whether  he  has  left  his  flesh  behind: 
"  whether  in  the  body,  or  out  of  the  body,  I  cannot 
tell:  God  knoweth."  "Within  itself,"  declares 
Dante,  "  the  eternal  pearl  [the  moon]  received 
us,  as  water  takes  in  a  ray  of  sunlight,  remaining 
unbroken.  If  I  was  in  the  flesh  (and  in  this  case 
it  cannot  be  conceived  how  one  solid  admitted 
another,  as  must  occur,  if  body  enters  into  body) 
—  if  I  was  in  the  flesh,  our  eagerness  should  be 
all  the  hotter  to  behold  that  essence  in  which  is  to 
be  seen  the  union  of  our  nature  with  God.  In  it 
we  shall  sec  that  which  we  hold  by  faith;  it  shall 
not  be  proved,  but  shall  be  self-revealed,  even  as 
the  primal  truth  that  all  men  believe." 

The  Creation  was  the  materialization,  the  ex- 
tcrnalization,  so  to  speak,  of  the  universe  which 
had  existed  from  all  eternity  in  the  divine  con- 
sciousness. The  conception  had  always  been 

[20] 


FAITH 

there.  "  In  the  beginning  was  the  Word,  and  the 
Word  was  with  God,  and  the  Word  was  God." 
The  act  was  performed  by  the  three  Persons  of 
the  Trinity  in  unison:  Power,  moved  by  Love, 
guided  by  Wisdom,  made  the  wondrous  world. 
As  Dante  puts  it:  "All  that  revolves  in  space  or 
in  mind  was  created,  —  with  a  symmetry  such 
that  he  who  contemplates  it  cannot  be  without 
some  foretaste  of  its  maker,  —  by  the  primal  and 
ineffable  Power,  gazing  upon  his  Son  with  that 
love  which  breathes  eternally  from  each."  It  was 
the  divine  bounty,  the  desire  of  God  to  share  his 
happiness  with  other  beings,  which  impelled  him 
to  bring  into  existence  the  angels  and  mankind 
(endowed  with  free  will,  that  they  might  have  a 
real  life  of  their  own),  and  to  fashion  the  world 
for  them  to  inhabit  —  earth  for  man,  skies  for  the 
angels.  "  The  divine  goodness,"  says  the  poet, 
"  to  which  all  envy  is  alien,  glowing  within  itself, 
sparkles  so  that  it  unfolds  its  eternal  beauties." 
A  lovely  image  of  creation:  God's  burning  love 
throwing  off  sparks,  which  repeat  and  multiply 
its  eternal  light.  In  another  passage  Beatrice 
expounds  to  Dante  the  motive  of  the  creative  act, 
when,  as  we  read  in  Genesis,  "  the  Spirit  of  God 
moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters."  '  Not  for 
the  sake  of  increasing  his  own  welfare,"  she  says, 
"  for  that  cannot  be,  but  to  the  end  that  his  bright- 
ness, reflected  back,  might  say  '  I  live,'  the  eternal 
love,  at  its  own  pleasure,  in  its  eternity  outside 
of  time  and  outside  of  every  other  restriction, 
opened  out  into  new  loves.  Nor  did  it  lie,  before 

[21] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

this  act,  in  a  state,  as  it  were,  of  torpor;  for  there 
was  no  before  nor  after  in  the  moving  of  God 
upon  these  waters."  God,  in  his  eternity,  knows 
no  distinctions  of  time,  all  moments  being  equally 
present  to  him.  He  is  sometimes  likened  to  the 
centre  of  a  circle  whose  circumference  is  eternity; 
for  the  centre  is  simultaneously  opposite  all  points 
of  the  circumference.  As  to  the  mode  of  creation, 
the  Biblical  six  days  are  to  be  taken  figuratively. 
The  angels,  the  heavens,  and  the  mass  of  brute 
matter  burst  into  existence  in  one  moment;  then 
the  skies,  directed  by  the  angels,  operated  upon 
matter,  separating  the  four  elements  (earth,  water, 
air,  fire),  shaping  our  globe,  and  drawing  forth 
minerals,  plants,  and  beasts;  but  man  was  created 
by  a  special,  direct  act  of  God. 

Angels  and  men  were  created  free;  but  freedom 
implies  the  possibility  of  sin.  If  there  be  no 
opportunity  to  make  a  wrongful  choice,  there  can 
be  no  free  will,  and  therefore  no  independent  life. 
Beasts  and  plants  can  do  no  evil,  for  they  are 
governed  in  all  things  by  instinct,  over  which  they 
have  no  control.  Angels  and  men,  destined  to  be 
participants  in  God's  happiness,  must  be  independ- 
ent and  must  prove  themselves  worthy  of  their 
freedom.  At  the  very  outset  of  their  career  they 
are  put  to  the  test.  The  angels  are  offered  grace, 
which  most  of  them  unhesitatingly  accept,  and 
forevermore,  in  consequence  of  this  gift,  behold 
God  so  clearly  that  it  is  impossible  for  them  to 
deviate  from  his  will.  But  some  ("about  a 
tenth,"  as  Dante  conjectures),  expecting  in  their 

[22] 


FAITH 

arrogance  to  equal  God  without  his  help,  reject 
the  proffered  grace  —  "  before  one  could  count 
twenty  "  —  and  are  cast  out  of  Heaven  to  dwell 
everlastingly  as  devils  in  Hell,  which  shapes  itself 
in  the  forming  earth  as  they  fall.  Thereupon,  to 
fill  their  vacant  place,  God  created  man.  Adam 
and  Eve  were  set  in  the  Earthly  Paradise,  the 
intended  home  of  humanity ;  they  were  surrounded 
with  all  the  charms  of  perpetual  springtime,  and 
all  their  wants  were  supplied.  Only  one  restric- 
tion was  put  upon  them,  and  that  they  presently 
broke,  exalting  themselves,  in  their  pride,  above 
the  divine  law.  Ere  they  were  seven  hours  old, 
they  were  driven  from  Eden,  and  mankind  had 
forfeited  the  gift  of  grace,  had  incurred  the 
penalty  of  death,  and  had  lost  the  way  to  Heaven. 
"Unwilling,"  says  Dante,  "to  suffer  any  check 
upon  his  will  power,  —  even  a  check  to  his  own 
advantage,  —  that  man  who  never  was  born,  con- 
demning himself,  condemned  all  his  progeny." 
In  the  trial  of  free  will,  the  greater  part  of  the 
angels  had  met  their  responsibility  with  success; 
humanity,  in  the  person  of  our  first  father,  po- 
tentially the  wisest  of  men,  had  failed. 

Yet  divine  love  found  a  way  for  man's  possible 
redemption.  When  Dante  is  in  the  sky  which 
bears  the  fixed  stars,  he  beholds,  in  the  form  of 
innumerable  lights,  the  whole  host  of  the  human 
souls  redeemed  by  Christ;  and  the  Saviour  himself 
shines  forth  like  a  fiery  sun  above  them.  "  There 
was  but  a  little  while,"  writes  the  poet,  "  between 
one  instant  and  the  other :  I  mean,  between  my 

[23] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

expecting  and  my  beholding  the  sky  grow  brighter 
and  ever  brighter.  And  Beatrice  cried:  '  Lo!  the 
armies  of  the  triumph  of  Christ,  and  all  the  har- 
vest gathered  by  the  revolution  of  these  spheres! ' 
It  seemed  to  me  that  her  face  was  all  afire,  and 
her  eyes  so  full  of  gladness  that  I  must  pass  on 
without  words.  As,  on  clear,  calm  nights  of  full 
moon,  Luna  laughs  among  her  eternal  nymphs, 
who  paint  the  sky  on  all  sides,  I  saw  shining, 
above  thousands  of  lights,  one  sun  which  kindled 
them  all,  as  our  sun  kindles  the  things  we  see  on 
high;  and  through  its  living  glow  there  shone  the 
gleaming  substance  so  clear  that  my  sight  could 
not  support  it."  This  "  substance,"  which  gleams 
through  the  splendor  of  Christ,  is,  of  course,  the 
human  nature  in  his  Person.  In  Dante's  final 
vision  of  God,  the  second  of  the  three  rings  of 
light  appears  to  him  to  be  "  painted  by  itself,  with 
its  own  color,  in  our  likeness.  Therefore  was  my 
attention  all  bent  upon  it.  Like  some  geometer 
who  applies  his  whole  mind  to  the  problem  of 
squaring  the  circle,  and  in  his  thought  cannot  dis- 
cover the  principle  he  lacks,  so  was  I  before  this 
strange  sight.  I  was  eager  to  see  how  the  image 
was  related  to  the  circle,  and  what  was  its  place 
therein;  "  but  my  wings  could  not  soar  so  high - 
until  in  one  instant,  like  a  lightning-flash,  my 
"  wish  came." 

In  spite  of  the  divine  assumption  of  man's 
nature  with  man's  inherited  sin,  in  spite  of 
vicarious  atonement,  the  salvation  or  perdition  of 
each  soul  depends  upon  that  soul  itself.  And  it 

[24] 


FAITH 

depends  specifically  on  the  real  state  of  the  soul 
at  the  very  moment  of  death.  This  doctrine  is 
brought  home  to  the  reader  of  the  Divine  Comedy 
by  two  contrary  examples,  one  in  Hell,  one  in 
Purgatory,  the  two  contrasted  sinners  being  father 
and  son,  Guido  and  Buonconte  da  Montefeltro. 
In  each  case  there  is  at  death  a  contest,  between 
the  powers  of  good  and  of  evil,  for  the  possession 
of  the  soul,  the  demon  winning  in  the  first  instance, 
the  angel  in  the  second.  The  father,  Guido,  hav- 
ing made  his  peace  with  Heaven,  commits  one  last 
fault  at  the  instigation  of  the  Pope,  Boniface  VIII, 
who  promises  to  remit  his  guilt;  he  is  lost.  Buon- 
conte, the  son,  at  the  close  of  an  irreligious  life, 
being  mortally  wounded  on  the  battle-field,  calls 
on  Mary  with  his  last  gasp,  and  is  saved.  The 
first  has  died  unrepentant,  though  absolved  by  the 
Pope;  the  second  has  died  genuinely  repentant, 
though  too  late  for  earthly  shriving. 

Guido  da  Montefeltro  was  a  great  Ghibelline 
general,  renowned  for  his  astuteness.  His  spirit 
is  found  by  Dante  in  Hell,  among  the  fraudulent 
counselors,  enveloped  and  hidden  by  a  huge  tongue 
of  flame,  which,  moving  its  point,  speaks  the  words 
uttered  by  the  soul  within  it.  "  When  the  fire," 
says  the  poet,  "had  roared  a  bit  after  its  fashion, 
it  waved  its  sharp  tip  to  and  fro,  and  then  gave  the 
following  blast:  '  If  I  believed  that  my  reply  were 
made  to  one  who  was  ever  to  return  to  the  world, 
this  flame  would  shake  no  more.  But  since,  if 
what  I  hear  is  true,  no  one  has  ever  gone  back 
alive  from  this  depth,  I  answer  thee  without  fear 

[25] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

of  infamy.  I  was  a  man  of  arms,  and  then  a 
Franciscan,  thinking  to  make  amends  by  wearing 
the  rope  girdle.  And  my  thought  would  have 
turned  out  true,  had  it  not  been  for  the  high  priest 
(a  curse  upon  him!),  who  led  me  back  into  my 
former  sins.  And  I  would  have  thee  hear  how 
and  why.  While  I  was  a  shape  of  bones  and  flesh, 
which  my  mother  gave  me,  my  deeds  were  not 
those  of  a  lion  but  of  a  fox.  Wiles  and  secret 
ways,  I  knew  them  all,  and  so  plied  their  art  that 
the  fame  of  it  went  forth  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
When  I  saw  that  I  had  reached  that  part  of  my 
age  when  every  man  should  furl  his  sails  and  coil 
his  ropes,  I  was  grieved  at  the  things  that  had 
pleased  me  before.  Penitent  and  confessed,  I 
took  vows  (poor  me!)  ;  and  it  might  have  saved 
me.  The  prince  of  the  modern  Pharisees,  having 
war  close  to  the  Lateran  [with  the  Colonna 
family]  .  .  .  ,  considered  not  his  supreme  office 
and  holy  orders  nor  my  rope  belt  .  .  .  ;  but,  even 
as  Constantine  sought  Sylvester  in  Soracte  to  cure 
his  leprosy,  so  he  sought  me  as  a  master-physician 
to  cure  his  haughty  fever.  He  asked  my  advice, 
and  I  was  silent,  because  his  words  seemed  to  me 
drunken.  Then  he  spake :  '  Let  thy  heart  have  no 
misgiving.  I  absolve  thee  even  now.  And  do 
thou  show  me  how  I  may  bring  to  earth  [the  for- 
tress of]  Palestrina.  I  can  lock  and  unlock 
Heaven,  as  thou  knowest,  for  I  have  the  two 
keys.  .  .  .'  At  last  his  weighty  arguments  pushed 
me  to  a  point  where  silence  appeared  to  me  the 
worse  course,  and  I  replied:  '  Father,  since  thou 
[26] 


FAITH 

washest  me  clean  of  that  sin  into  which  I  am  about 
to  fall,  a  long  promise  and  a  short  fulfilment  shall 
make  thee  triumph  on  thy  high  throne.'  Then, 
when  I  was  dead,  St.  Francis  came  for  me.  But 
one  of  the  black  Cherubim  said  to  him:  'Take 
him  not,  do  not  wrong  me !  He  must  come  down 
below  among  my  servitors,  because  he  gave  that 
counsel  of  fraud,  ever  since  which  I  have  been 
lurking  about  his  hair.  For  he  who  repents  not 
cannot  be  absolved,  nor  can  anyone  at  the  same 
time  repent  and  will  [evil],  because  of  the  con- 
tradiction that  will  not  admit  of  it.'  Ah!  woe  is 
me !  How  I  shuddered  when  he  seized  me,  say- 
ing :  '  Perhaps  thou  didst  not  think  that  I  had 
studied  logic!  ' 

Guido's  son,  Buonconte  da  Monte feltro,  was, 
like  his  father,  an  able  captain.  He  was  of  our 
poet's  own  time,  and,  in  fact,  was  killed  in  1289 
at  the  battle  of  Campaldino  in  which  Dante 
fought,  on  the  other  side.  Somehow  his  body 
vanished  from  the  field,  and  no  one  ever  knew 
what  became  of  it.  This  mysterious  disappear- 
ance affords  an  opening  for  a  story,  which  our 
author  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Buonconte  himself. 
His  shade  is  waiting  on  the  mountain  slope,  outside 
the  gate  of  Purgatory,  among  those  who,  having 
postponed  repentance  until  the  last  moment,  are 
obliged  to  postpone  correspondingly  the  entrance 
upon  their  preparation  for  Heaven.  Their  delay 
may,  however,  be  shortened  by  the  prayers  of  the 
living.  "  '  Prithee,'  "  he  exclaimed  to  Dante,  "  '  so 
may  thy  longing  be  fulfilled  which  leads  thee  up 

[27] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

the  high  mountain,  assist  my  longing  with  kindly 
piety.  I  was  of  Montef eltro ;  I  am  Buonconte. 
Neither  Joan  [my  wife]  nor  anyone  else  takes 
thought  of  me;  wherefore  I  walk  among  these 
[souls]  with  bended  brow.'  And  I  responded: 
4  What  power  or  what  chance  so  removed  thee 
from  Campaldino  that  thy  burial  place  hath  never 
been  found?'  'O!'  he  replied,  'at  the  foot  of 
the  Casentino  pours  a  stream  named  Archiano, 
which  is  born  in  the  Apennines  above  the  Her- 
mitage. To  the  spot  where  its  appellation  becomes 
useless  [because  the  river  there  merges  with  the 
Arno]  I  came,  with  my  throat  cut,  fleeing  on  foot 
and  wetting  the  plain  with  blood.  There  my  sight 
failed,  and  my  speech  fled,  ending  with  the  name 
of  Mary;  and  there  I  fell,  and  my  flesh  was  left 
alone.  I  shall  tell  thee  the  truth,  and  do  thou 
repeat  it  among  the  living.  God's  angel  took 
me;  and  one  from  Hell  shouted:  "O  thou  from 
Heaven,  why  dost  thou  rob  me  ?  Thou  shalt  carry 
away  this  man's  eternal  part,  all  on  account  of 
one  little  tear,  which  snatches  him  from  me.  But 
of  the  rest  I  shall  make  a  different  disposal."  Well 
thou  knowest  how  the  air  collects  that  moist  vapor 
which  turns  back  to  water  as  soon  as  it  rises  high 
enough  to  be  caught  by  the  cold.  That  spirit, 
combining  intelligence  with  ill-will  which  seeks 
naught  but  harm,  moved  mist  and  wind  with  the 
power  its  nature  gave  it.  Then,  when  the  day 
was  spent,  it  covered  with  clouds  the  valley  be- 
tween Pratomagno  and  the  great  chain,  and  made 
the  sky  above  it  so  tense  that  the  teeming  air 
[28] 


FAITH 

turned  to  water.  The  rain  descended;  and  as 
much  of  it  as  earth  could  not  support  ran  into 
gullies;  and,  coming  together  in  great  torrents,  it 
plunged  toward  the  royal  river  so  swift  that 
naught  could  check  it.  The  raging  Archiano 
found  my  frozen  body  at  its  mouth,  and  pushed  it 
into  the  Arno,  and  undid  upon  my  breast  the  cross 
that  I  had  made  of  myself,  when  pain  conquered 
me;  it  whirled  me  along  banks  and  bottom,  then 
swathed  and  begirt  me  with  its  booty.'  ' 

Captain  of  his  soul  is  every  living  Christian: 
his  eternal  fate  depends  eventually  on  himself. 
But  man  can  find  his  Paradise  only  through  Christ. 
"  Neither  is  there  salvation  in  any  other:  for  there 
is  none  other  name  under  heaven  given  among 
men,  whereby  we  must  be  saved."  The  doctrines 
of  his  faith  Dante  accepted  unreservedly,  dwelt 
with  them  night  and  day,  and,  as  we  have  seen, 
invested  them  in  his  mind  with  fresh  substance 
and  color.  Unflinching  belief  in  the  power  and 
goodness  of  God  and  the  final  triumph  of  justice, 
reverence  for  the  external  Church  as  the  divinely 
established  representative  of  the  Church  spiritual, 
close  obedience  to  the  rightful  authority  in  matters 
of  religion  —  all  this  was  for  him  beyond  ques- 
tion. Dante  furiously  resented  the  outrage  done 
at  Anagni  to  Pope  Boniface  VIII,  whom  he  re- 
garded, nevertheless,  as  an  unscrupulous  villain, 
doomed  to  Hell,  the  arch-enemy  of  his  cause. 
Even  the  Emperor,  whose  independence  Dante 
so  passionately  championed,  must,  according  to 
him,  respect  the  Pope  as  an  elder  son  respects  a 

[29] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

father.  The  office,  the  religious  function,  was 
never  confused  by  our  poet  with  the  man  who 
exercised  it.  Unsparing  he  always  was  in  criticism 
of  the  unworthy  incumbent,  untiring  in  his  de- 
nunciation of  wicked  prelates ;  strict,  too,  in  draw- 
ing the  line  between  ecclesiastical  dominion  and 
individual  right.  A  fraudulent  absolution,  as  we 
have  seen,  is  of  no  avail;  equally  impotent  is  an 
unjust  excommunication.  At  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain of  Purgatory  Dante  meets  the  shade  of  the 
beloved  Manfred,  chief  of  the  Ghibellines,  son  of 
Emperor  Frederick  II.  He,  like  his  father,  died 
under  the  ban  of  the  Church.  It  was  in  1266,  at 
the  great  battle  of  Benevento,  that  he  fell.  His 
body  was  covered  by  his  soldiers  with  a  pile  of 
stones,  near  the  end  of  a  bridge;  but  Pope  Clem- 
ent IV,  unwilling  to  let  his  bones  rest  in  peace, 
dispatched  to  the  battle-field  the  Cardinal  Arch- 
bishop of  Cosenza,  who  had  the  remains  disin- 
terred and  cast  out  of  the  papal  realm,  beside  the 
river  Verde.  Yet  Manfred,  genuinely  repentant 
at  the  end,  —  as  Dante  thought,  —  and  a  good 
Christian  at  heart,  found  forgiveness;  whereas  his 
father,  the  great  Emperor,  an  impenitent  heretic, 
was  damned.  I  shall  conclude  with  Manfred's 
story.  Dante  has  been  looking  at  a  group  of 
shades. 

And  one  began :  "  Whoe'er  thou  art,  abide, 

O  thou  that  walkest  on,  look  back  again ! 

Hast  ever  seen  me  on  the  other  side? 
I  turned  to  him,  and  gazed  with  might  and  main. 

Handsome  and  blond  was  he,  a  princely  guest  ; 

An  ugly  wound  had  cleft  his  brow  in  twain. 
[30] 


FAITH 

When  I  with  proper  meekness  had  confest 

I  ne'er  had  seen  him,  he  exclaimed:  "  Now  see!  " 
And  showed  a  scar  high  up  upon  his  breast. 

"  Manfred  am  I,"  he  then  said  smilingly, 

"  Grandson  of  Empress  Constance,  Henry's  wife. 
And  when  thou  shalt  return,  I  beg  of  thee, 

Seek  out  my  beauteous  daughter,  who  gave  life 
To  Aragon's  and  Sicily's  great  lords ; 
Tell  her  the  truth,  if  false  report  is  rife. 

When  I  was  split  by  two  death-dealing  swords, 
My  rueful  soul  I  weeping  did  resign 
To  him  who  gladly  pardons  and  rewards. 

My  sins  were  horrible ;  but  grace  divine, 
With  loving,  all-embracing  arms  outspread, 
Takes  every  soul  that  doth  to  it  incline. 

And  if  Cosenza's  shepherd,  who  was  sped 
By  Clement  on  my  track,  revenge  to  reap, 
That  page  of  holy  writ  had  rightly  read, 

My  body's  bones  still  peacefully  would  sleep 
Near  Benevento,  where  the  bridge  is  past, 
Protected  by  the  ponderous  stony  heap. 

Rain  wets  them  now,  and  rattles  them  the  blast, 
Outside  the  realm,  not  far  from  Verde's  cleft, 
Where  he,  with  lightless  candles,  had  them  cast. 

No  curse  of  theirs  can  leave  us  so  bereft 

That  God's  eternal  love  may  not  come  back, 
As  long  as  hope  hath  any  greenness  left." 

[From  Dante,  p.  41.] 


[31] 


LECTURE   II 
MORALITY 

THE  doctrine  of  free  will,  which  I  discussed  in 
my  first  lecture,  implies  individual  moral  responsi- 
bility—  a  salutary  principle,  even  though  it  be 
not  in  accord  with  the  theories  of  sociology  or  the 
inclinations  of  sentiment.  Nowadays  we  are  all 
too  disposed  to  put  the  blame  for  wrongdoing  on 
heredity,  environment,  organization  —  anywhere 
but  on  the  wrongdoer.  However  beautiful  the 
impulse  that  prompts  to  such  extenuation  of  crime, 
it  certainly  does  not  tend  to  check  criminality. 
Dante's  age  knew  no  such  amiable  weakness.  The 
criminal  was  not  yet  encouraged  to  look  upon  him- 
self as  a  victim,  rather  than  an  offender,  and  con- 
sequently knew  what  to  expect,  here  and  hereafter. 
And  Dante  himself  admitted  no  compromise  with 
sin:  a  stern  judge  both  of  other  men's  deeds  and 
of  his  own,  he  held  all  to  the  strictest  account. 

Sin  is  a  wicked  act  of  the  will;  and  it  consists 
in  an  erroneous  choice  between  good  and  evil,  the 
latter  seeming  under  the  circumstances  preferable 
to  the  former.  If  we  are  attracted  by  unworthy 
things,  it  is  not  our  fault:  sin  begins  when  we  give 
way  to  the  attraction,  against  the  advice  of  con- 
science. Temptation  is  man's  lot.  Without  it. 

[32] 


MORALITY 

indeed,  he  would  have  no  active  free  will,  because 
there  would  be  no  choice  to  make.  Temptation 
and  heavenly  protection  are  prettily  figured  in  a 
scene  in  the  Purgatorio.  A  company  of  spirits  in 
a  valley  on  the  mountainside,  below  the  gate  of 
Purgatory,  as  night  draws  near,  sing  the  Am- 
brosian  hymn  Te  lucis  ante  terminum: 

Ere  daylight  wholly  vanisheth, 
Creator,  thee  we  supplicate 
That  in  thine  endless  clemency 
Thou  guard  us  and  watch  over  us. 

Let  dreams  be  far  away  from  us, 
Nocturnal  phantoms  flee  from  us; 
And  hold  in  check  our  enemy, 
Lest  he  defile  our  purity. 

[From  Dante,  p.  93.] 

Here  is  the  incident,  as  Dante  tells  it.  "  It 
was  already  the  hour  which  inclines  the  longing 
of  sailors  and  melts  their  hearts  on  the  day  they 
have  said  farewell  to  their  dear  friends,  and 
which  pricks  with  love  the  unaccustomed  traveler 
if  he  hears  from  afar  a  bell  that  seems  to  mourn 
the  dying  day,  when  I  began  to  gaze  [with  all  the 
power  of  my  senses]  on  one  of  the  souls  which  had 
arisen  and  with  its  hand  was  asking  for  attention. 
It  clasped  and  lifted  up  both  palms,  fixing  its  eyes 
on  the  east,  as  if  saying  to  God,  '  I  care  for  naught 
else.'  Te  lucis  ante  issued  so  devoutly  from  its 
lips,  and  with  such  sweet  notes,  that  it  made  me 
forget  myself.  And  the  other  souls  then  sweetly 
and  devoutly  accompanied  it  through  the  whole 

[  33  ] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

hymn,  their  eyes  bent  on  the  heavenly  wheels. 
Sharpen  thine  eyes  here,  reader,  for  the  truth;  for 
now  is  the  vetf  indeed  so  thin  that  surely  it  is  easy 
to  see  through.  I  beheld  that  gentle  host  then 
silently  look  upward,  as  if  waiting,  pale  and  meek; 
and  I  saw,  issuing  from  on  high  and  descending, 
two  angels  with  two  fiery  swords,  blunted  and 
pointless.  Green  as  little  new-born  leaves  were 
their  garments,  which  trailed  after  them  flapped 
and  fanned  by  green  wings.  The  one  took  its 
station  a  little  above  us,  and  the  other  alighted 
on  the  opposite  bank,  so  that  the  company  within 
[the  valley]  was  between  them.  Well  I  saw  their 
blond  heads,  but  their  faces  dazzled  my  eye,  as 
any  excess  benumbs  a  faculty.  '  They  both  come 
from  the  lap  of  Mary,'  said  Sordello,  'to  watch 
over  the  dell,  because  of  the  serpent  that  is  coming 
presently.'  At  that,  I,  not  knowing  in  which  direc- 
tion, turned  around,  and,  all  chilly,  drew  close  to 
the  trusty  shoulders  [of  my  leader]." 

The  two  green  angels  of  hope,  with  their 
swords  of  defense,  have  come  to  guard  these  wait- 
ing souls  against  the  serpent  of  temptation.  After 
some  converse  in  the  valley,  the  episode  continues : 
"  While  Virgil  was  speaking,  Sordello  drew  the 
speaker  to  himself,  saying:  '  Behold  yonder  our 
enemy!'  and  pointed  his  finger  to  make  Virgil 
look  that  way.  On  the  side  where  the  little  dale 
has  no  bank,  there  was  a  snake,  perhaps  the  one 
that  gave  Eve  the  bitter  food.  Amid  grass  and 
flowers  I  could  see  its  evil  trail  advancing;  and 
from  time  to  time  it  turned  its  head  to  its  back, 

[34] 


MORALITY 

licking  like  a  creature  that  is  sleeking  itself.  How 
the  heavenly  hawks  started  I  did  not  see  and  there- 
fore cannot  tell,  but  I  clearly  saw  them  both  in 
motion.  Hearing  the  air  cleft  by  the  green 
wings,  the  serpent  fled,  and  the  angels  faced 
about,  flying  evenly  back  to  their  posts." 

The  Purgatorio  offers  us  another  picture  of 
temptation — the  dream  of  the  Siren,  who  rep- 
resents the  sins  of  the  flesh.  Just  before  dawn 
there  appears  to  Dante  in  his  sleep  a  hideous 
female,  misshapen,  pallid,  squint-eyed,  stammer- 
ing. "  I  gazed  at  her;  and  as  the  sun  restores  the 
cold  limbs  made  heavy  by  night,  thus  my  look 
loosened  her  tongue,  then  straightened  her  all  out 
in  a  little  while,  and  colored  her  wan  face  as  love 
demands.  When  her  speech  was  thus  unbound, 
she  began  to  sing  so  that  I  could  hardly  have 
turned  my  attention  from  her.  '  I  am,'  she  sang, 
'  I  am  sweet  Siren  who  bewitch  sailors  in  mid  sea, 
so  full  am  I  of  charm  to  hear.  By  my  song  I 
turned  Ulysses  from  his  wandering  way.  And 
whosoever  abides  with  me  seldom  departs,  so 
wholly  do  I  satisfy  him.'  Her  lips  were  not  yet 
closed  when  a  lady,  swift  and  holy,  appeared  at 
my  side,  to  confound  the  other.  '  O  Virgil,  Virgil, 
who  is  this?'  she  said  proudly;  and  he  advanced 
with  his  eyes  fixed  only  on  this  modest  woman." 
Virgil,  or  Reason,  thus  invoked  by  conscience 
("the  power  that  counsels")  seizes  the  Siren, 
which  has  come  to  look  beautiful  under  Dante's 
too  attentive  gaze,  and  reveals  its  true  ugliness; 
and  Dante  wakes  from  his  dream  in  disgust. 

[35] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Still  another  allegory  of  sin  presents  itself  at 
the  very  beginning  of  the  Divine  Comedy.  The 
poet,  as  you  remember,  suddenly  comes  to  his 
senses  in  the  early  morning  of  good  Friday,  and 
finds  himself  in  a  dark  wood,  in  which  he  has  been 
wandering  by  the  light  of  the  full  moon.  Terrified 
and  eager  to  escape,  he  makes  his  way  to  the  foot 
of  a  mountain,  whose  summit  is  lit  by  the  rays  of 
the  rising  sun.  But  as  he  is  attempting  to  climb 
this  peak  of  righteousness,  his  evil  habits,  in  the 
form  of  three  beasts,  bar  his  way  and  are  on  the 
point  of  driving  him  back  into  the  wood  of  world- 
liness.  Then  it  is  that  Reason,  embodied  in  Virgil, 
appears  on  the  scene,  having  been  sent  by  Revela- 
tion, or  Beatrice,  at  the  instance  of  Grace  and 
Mercy. 

"  A  very  different  way  thy  steps  must  trace," 
Virgil  replied,  when  he  beheld  me  weep, 
"  If  thou  wouldst  leave  this  wild  and  woody  place." 

It  is  impossible  to  hurry  thus  from  wickedness  to 
rectitude,  prompted  only  by  fear.  To  escape  from 
sin,  one  must  know  what  sin  really  is,  by  contem- 
plating it  in  its  true  light,  by  tracking  it  to  its 
lair  and  seeing  it  in  all  its  ugliness  and  folly;  then, 
when  evil  has  become  abhorrent,  —  hateful  in 
itself,  not  merely  in  its  consequences,  —  one  must 
submit  to  long,  hard  discipline,  making  amends 
for  past  wrong  and  fortifying  the  soul  against 
future  temptation.  In  a  word,  one  must  pass 
through  Hell  and  Purgatory.  "  Wherefore,"  says 
Virgil,  "  for  thine  own  good  I  judge  and  choose 

[36] 


MORALITY 

that  thou  follow  me,  and  I  shall  be  thy  guide;  and 
I  shall  lead  thee  where  thou  shalt  hear  the  shrieks 
of  despair  and  shalt  see  the  ancient  spirits  in  their 
pain,  each  one  of  them  proclaiming  the  second 
death.  Then  thou  shalt  see  those  who  are  con- 
tented in  the  fire,  because  they  expect,  whenever 
the  time  may  be,  to  come  among  the  blest."  In 
Dante's  Hell,  every  punishment  is  the  symbolic 
presentment  of  a  sin;  and  the  whole  Inferno  is  an 
image  of  the  wicked  life  of  the  depraved.  In  his 
Purgatory,  the  penalties  represent  the  kinds  of 
discipline  required  to  cleanse  the  soul  of  its  tend- 
ency to  do  wrong ;  and  the  Purgatorio  is  a  picture 
of  the  penitent.  One  must  learn  the  true  nature 
of  sin,  and  how  to  cure  its  effects.  "  '  O  poet,'  ' 
Dante  answers,  "  '  I  implore  thee  by  that  God 
whom  thou  knewest  not  —  that  I  may  escape  this 
ill  and  worse  — to  lead  me  whither  thou  hast  just 
said,  so  that  I  may  see  St.  Peter's  gate  and  also 
those  whom  thou  dost  picture  in  such  agony.' 
Then  he  set  forth,  and  I  followed  after  him." 

Frank  recognition  of  evil  is  Dante's  course,  not 
cowardly  hiding  or  prevarication;  resolute  self- 
discipline,  not  shifting  of  responsibility  or  reliance 
on  mercy.  And  when  the  path  of  reformation  has 
once  been  chosen,  there  must  be  no  delay,  no  diver- 
sion, no  waste  of  time  or  strength.  Virgil,  himself 
devoid  of  hope  of  salvation,  thus  addresses  a  band 
of  spirits  who  have  started  on  the  way  to  Heaven : 

"  O  happily  departed  souls  elect, 

I  beg  you,  by  the  peace,"  said  Virgil's  ghost, 
"  Which  I  believe  that  all  of  you  expect, 

[37] 


THE   POWER  OF   DANTE 

To  tell  us  where  to  find  a  sloping  coast, 

Inclined  enough  for  man  to  climb  the  mount. 
Wisest  is  he  who  values  time  the  most." 

The  Ready-to-halt  of  the  Divine  Comedy  is  a 
certain  Belacqua,  who  in  life  had  been  a  maker  of 
musical  instruments  and  a  friend  of  our  poet  in 
Florence.  The  two  travelers  come  across  him  on 
the  slant  of  the  mountain,  outside  of  Purgatory. 
Virgil  has  been  explaining  the  astronomy  of  the 
southern  hemisphere  to  Dante,  who  has  observed 
with  amazement  the  sun  taking  its  course  across 
the  sky  to  the  northward  of  the  zenith  instead  of 
to  the  southward.  "  '  If  it  is  thy  pleasure,'  "  says 
the  pupil,  '  '  I  should  like  to  know  how  far  we 
have  to  go;  for  the  hillside  rises  higher  than  my 
eyes  can  follow.'  And  the  master  replied:  '  This 
mountain  is  of  such  kind  that  it  is  always  hard  at 
the  base,  when  one  begins;  and  the  further  up  one 
goes,  the  less  it  tires.  Therefore,  when  it  shall 
seem  to  thee  so  gentle  that  the  climb  shall  be  as 
easy  for  thee  as  going  downstream  in  a  boat,  then 
shalt  thou  be  at  the  end  of  this  path.  There  shalt 
thou  stop  to  rest  thy  heaving  chest.  I  can  give  no 
further  answer,  but  this  much  I  verily  do  know.' 
Hardly  had  he  finished  his  speech,  when  a  voice 
was  heard  close  by:  '  Perhaps,  ere  that,  thou  shalt 
feel  the  need  of  sitting  down.'  At  the  sound, 
each  of  us  turned  about,  and  we  saw  on  our  left 
a  great  boulder,  which  neither  he  nor  I  had  noticed 
before.  Thither  we  betook  ourselves,  and  beheld 
persons  loitering  in  the  shade,  behind  the  rock, 
like  people  who  have  thrown  themselves  down 

[38] 


MORALITY 

in  idleness.  One  of  them,  who  had  a  weary  look, 
sat  clasping  his  knees,  his  face  sunk  low  between 
them.  '  O  sweet  my  lord,'  said  I,  '  look  at  that 
one,  who  appears  lazier  than  if  indolence  had  been 
his  sister !  '  Then  the  spirit  turned  to  us,  and  gave 
heed,  lifting  its  face  up  only  along  the  thigh,  and 
said :  '  Climb  away,  thou  who  art  so  speedy !  '  At 
that  I  recognized  him ;  and  the  panting  which  still 
quickened  my  breath  a  little,  did  not  prevent  me 
from  going  to  him.  When  I  had  reached  him, 
he  scarcely  raised  his  head,  saying:  'Hast  thou 
really  observed  how  the  sun  drives  his  chariot 
over  thy  left  shoulder?  '  His  sluggish  ways  and 
scanty  words  moved  my  lips  to  smile  a  little  at 
first;  then  I  began :  '  Belacqua,  now  I  am  no  longer 
anxious  about  thee.  But  tell  me,  why  art  thou 
sitting  right  here?  Art  thou  waiting  for  an 
escort,  or  has  thine  old  habit  got  thee  again?' 
'  Brother,'  he  replied,  '  what  is  the  use  of  going 
up?  The  bird  of  God,  who  sits  at  the  gate,  would 
not  admit  me  to  the  punishments.'  ' 

An  amused  indulgence  is  Dante's  feeling  toward 
this  good  but  drowsy  soul.  Even  more  sympa- 
thetic is  his  attitude  toward  those  whom  worldly 
but  useful  pursuits  have  for  a  while  retarded  on 
the  road  to  self-perfection.  Yet  all  of  these,  he 
warns  us,  have  a  score  to  pay :  voluntary  delay 
on  earth  shall  be  punished  by  involuntary  delay 
on  the  ascent  to  blessedness.  No  dallying  is  safe. 
The  sweetest,  noblest  of  pleasures  must  not  be 
allowed  to  interfere  with  our  stern  purpose.  Such 
is  the  significance  of  the  episode  of  Casella.  This 

[391 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Casella,  another  Florentine  friend  of  Dante's,  was 
a  composer,  a  little  of  whose  music  is  preserved  in 
two  Vatican  manuscripts.  We  are  perhaps  not 
over-bold  in  conjecturing  that  he  wrote  the  melody 
for  some  of  our  poet's  songs.  His  soul  is  seen 
on  the  shore  of  the  island  of  Purgatory  —  an 
island  consisting  mainly  of  a  huge  mountain,  and 
situated  in  the  middle  of  the  great  ocean,  opposite 
Jerusalem.  Thither,  from  the  Tiber's  mouth,  an 
angel  ferries  the  departed  souls  that  are  on  their 
way  to  Paradise.  A  boat-load  of  these  spirits  has 
just  been  landed,  shortly  after  Dante  and  Virgil, 
climbing  out  of  Hell,  have  emerged  on  the  same 
strand. 

"  The  newly  arrived  people  raised  their  brows 
toward  us,  and  said:  '  If  ye  know,  show  us  the 
way  to  go  to  the  mountain.'  And  Virgil  answered: 
'  Ye  think,  perhaps,  that  we  are  accustomed  to 
this  place,  but  we  are  strangers,  like  you.  We 
came  but  a  short  while  ago,  a  little  before  you,  by 
a  different  path,  which  was  so  rough  and  hard  that 
climbing  will  now  seem  to  us  like  sport.'  The 
shades,  which  had  now  observed,  from  my  breath- 
ing, that  I  was  still  alive,  turned  pale  with  wonder. 
And,  as  a  crowd  hies  to  an  olive-bearing  messenger 
to  hear  the  news,  and  no  one  is  afraid  to  tread 
upon  his  neighbor's  heels,  so  all  those  happy 
souls  fastened  their  eyes  on  my  face,  almost  for- 
getting to  go  and  make  themselves  beautiful. 
One  of  them  I  saw  coming  forward  to  embrace 
me,  with  such  great  affection  that  I  was  moved  to 
do  the  same.  O  shades  empty,  save  to  the  eye ! 

[40] 


MORALITY 

Three  times  I  clasped  my  hands  behind  it,  and 
three  times  I  brought  them  back  to  my  breast. 
I  think  I  must  have  taken  on  the  color  of  amaze- 
ment; for  the  shade  smiled  and  drew  back,  and 
I,  pursuing  it,  pushed  forward.  Gently  it  bade  me 
desist.  Then  I  recognized  it,  and  besought  it  to 
stay  a  little  while  to  speak  with  me.  It  answered : 
'  Even  as  I  loved  thee  when  I  was  in  the  mortal 
body,  so  I  love  thee  now  that  I  am  set  free;  there- 
fore I  stop.  But  why  journeyest  thou  ?  '  '  Casella 
mine,'  said  I,  '  this  way  I  am  taking  that  I  may 
some  time  return  to  the  place  where  I  am  now. 
But  why  art  thou  robbed  of  so  much  time?'  [Ca- 
sella died  some  months  ago,  but  his  soul  has  just 
arrived.]  '  No  wrong  is  done  me,'  he  replied, 
'  if  he  who  takes  when  and  whom  he  chooseth, 
hath  more  than  once  denied  me  this  passage.  For 
his  will  is  derived  from  a  will  that  is  just '  .  .  . 
Then  I  said:  '  If  no  new  law  deprives  thee  of  the 
memory  or  the  habit  of  lovely  song,  which  used  to 
soothe  all  my  desires,  prithee,  comfort  a  little  my 
soul  therewith,  which,  bringing  its  body  here,  is 
so  weary.'  Then  he  began  Amor  che  nella  mente 
ml  ragiona  [one  of  Dante's  own  songs]  so  sweetly 
that  the  sweetness  still  resounds  within  me.  My 
master  and  I  and  those  who  were  with  him  seemed 
as  content  as  if  not  one  of  them  had  another 
thought.  We  were  all  absorbed  and  intent  on  his 
notes,  when  lo !  the  venerable  elder  [Cato,  guard- 
ian of  the  island,  symbol  of  Free  Will]  appeared, 
shouting:  'What  is  this,  dilatory  spirits?  What 
neglect,  what  dallying  is  this?  Run  to  the  moun- 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

tain  to  strip  off  the  scales  which  prevent  your  eyes 
from  seeing  God ! '  Like  frightened  doves 
startled  at  their  repast,  the  new-come  spirits  flee 
toward  the  mountainside,  "  as  a  man  who  goes, 
not  knowing  whither."  "  Nor  was  our  departure 
less  sudden."  In  this  abrupt  scattering,  Dante 
clings  close  to  his  trusty  companion;  "  for  how 
could  I  have  run  without  him?  who  would  have 
led  me  up  the  mountain?" 

Remorseful  Virgil  lookt,  and  pondering. 
O  conscience  clean  and  sure  of  good  intent, 
How  sharply  thee  a  petty  fault  doth  sting? 

Weakness  and  irresolution  were  hateful  to 
Dante's  positive,  energetic  nature.  Theoretically, 
to  be  sure,  when  no  question  of  right  or  wrong  is 
involved,  and  two  courses  of  the  same  attractive- 
ness lie  before  us,  hesitation  is  not  only  innocent 
but  inevitable.  It  is  the  old  case  of  the  donkey 
between  two  bales  of  hay,  or  of  "  how  happy  could 
I  be  with  either."  That  was  once  the  plight 
of  our  poet,  who,  having  two  equally  pressing 
questions  to  ask,  could  not  make  up  his  mind  which 
to  put:  "  Between  two  foods,  one  just  as  alluring 
and  just  as  distant  as  the  other,  a  man  with  free 
choice  would  die  of  hunger  before  he  would  set 
his  teeth  in  either.  Thus  a  lamb  would  stand  still 
between  two  fierce,  ravening  wolves  [afraid  to 
turn  either  way].  Thus  a  hound  would  stand 
motionless  between  two  deer.  Wherefore,  if 
I  was  silent,  pushed  equally  by  my  queries,  I  do 
not  blame  nor  praise  myself,  since  it  could  not  be 
helped." 

[42] 


MORALITY 

A  different  problem  confronts  a  person  who, 
having  made  a  vow,  finds  the  fulfilment  of  it 
disastrous.  Here  there  is  a  question  of  right  and 
wrong,  however  immediately  harmful  the  right 
may  appear.  Of  course,  the  only  kind  of  a  vow 
that  enters  into  consideration  is  a  proper  one,  a 
promise  of  such  sort  that  God  has  received  it  — 
not  a  foolish  pledge,  like  Jephthah's.  To  argue 
that  one  could,  by  breaking  an  accepted  bond,  ac- 
complish something  better  than  what  has  been 
plighted,  is  like  purposing  to  dispense  charity  with 
stolen  money.  Nevertheless,  the  temptation  may 
be  very  severe,  and  the  wrong  choice  may  look 
very  justifiable.  In  Dante's  Heaven,  the  lowest 
degree  of  beatitude  is  enjoyed  by  the  souls  of 
those  who  have  been  guilty  of  this  weakness,  but 
have  won  salvation  by  repentance.  The  figures 
he  represents  are  those  of  nuns  who,  under  com- 
pulsion from  their  families,  have  returned  to 
secular  life  and  married.  They  are  seen  as  pale, 
faint  images  against  the  white  moon  —  so  dim  that 
Dante  at  first  takes  them  for  reflections,  making 
a  mistake  contrary  to  that  of  Narcissus,  who  fell 
in  love  with  his  own  likeness  in  a  fountain.  "As 
the  outlines  of  our  features,  in  clean,  transparent 
window  panes,  or  in  waters  clear  and  still  and  not 
so  deep  that  the  bottom  is  invisible,  return  to  us 
so  feeble  that  a  pearl  against  a  white  forehead  is 
no  slower  in  reaching  our  pupils,  so  I  beheld  sev- 
eral faces  eager  to  speak.  Wherefore  I  fell  into 
an  error  opposite  to  that  which  kindled  love  be- 
tween man  and  spring.  No  sooner  had  I  taken 

[43] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

note  of  them  than  I  turned  my  eyes  around,  think- 
ing these  images  to  be  mirrored  forms,  to  see 
whose  they  might  be.  And,  seeing  nothing,  I 
turned  to  the  front  again,  looking  toward  the  light 
of  my  dear  guide,  whose  holy  eyes  were  aglow 
with  smiles." 

These  figures,  feeble  and  indeterminate  though 
they  be,  are  not  scornfully  depicted.  They  are 
gentle,  well-meaning  creatures,  who  lack  the  clean- 
cut  vigor  of  those  men  and  women  whose  spiritual 
sight  is  clearest.  On  earth  they  suffered  sorely 
and  patiently  from  their  mistaken  course,  and  in 
Paradise  their  happiness  is  of  the  mildest  variety. 
How  different  is  Dante's  portrayal  of  the  selfish 
Laodiceans,  the  time-serving  neutrals,  who,  when 
the  battle  of  righteousness  was  being  fought,  would 
take  neither  side,  preferring  the  life  and  ease  of  the 
body  to  the  life  of  the  spirit!  For  such  souls  as 
these  he  provides  a  dwelling  apart,  within  the  gate 
of  Hell,  but  outside  the  encircling  river  Acheron,  a 
sort  of  vestibule  of  the  lower  world.  Tormented 
beyond  endurance  by  trifles  (as  are  always  those 
who  put  their  own  comfort  above  everything 
else),  forever  dodging  purposelessly  to  and  fro 
after  a  flag  that  leads  to  nothing,  they  suffer  a 
punishment  that  is  invested  with  no  dignity  and 
arouses  no  sympathy.  Here  is  Dante's  descrip- 
tion. 

"  Now  sighs,  cries,  and  shrill  shrieks  rang 
through  the  starless  air;  whereat  at  first  I  began 
to  weep.  Strange  tongues,  horrid  speech,  words 
of  pain,  accents  of  wrath,  voices  loud  and  weak, 

[44] 


MORALITY 

and  the  sound  of  hands  accompanying  them,  made 
a  tumult  which  revolves  forever  in  that  air  end- 
lessly dark,'  like  sand  blowing  before  a  whirlwind. 
And  I,  whose  head  was  hooded  with  horror,  ex- 
claimed: '  Master,  what  is  it  I  hear?  What  kind 
of  people  is  it  that  seems  so  vanquished  by  grief? ' 
And  he  replied:  'This  is  the  miserable  way  fol- 
lowed by  the  sorry  souls  of  those  who  lived  with- 
out infamy  and  without  glory.  They  are  mingled 
with  the  mean  choir  of  those  angels  who  were  not 
rebels  and  were  not  faithful  to  God,  but  were  for 
themselves.  Heaven  cast  them  out,  lest  its  beauty 
should  be  spoiled;  and  deep  Hell  will  not  receive 
them,  because  the  damned  might  derive  some  satis- 
faction from  them.'  '  Master,'  said  I,  '  what  is 
so  grievous  to  them,  which  makes  them  complain 
so  loud?'  'I  shall  tell  thee  right  briefly,'  he 
answered.  '  These  people  have  no  hope  of  death, 
and  their  blind  life  is  so  vile  that  they  are  envious 
of  any  other  lot.  The  world  allows  no  report  of 
them  to  last;  mercy  and  justice  disdain  them.  Let 
us  not  speak  of  them,  but  look  and  pass  by !  '  And 
I,  looking,  saw  a  banner,  which  ran  circling  so  swift 
that  it  seemed  scornful  of  all  rest;  and  after  it 
there  came  trailing  such  a  long  train  of  people  that 
I  should  never  have  thought  death  had  undone  so 
many.  When  I  had  made  out  one  or  two  of  them, 
I  saw  and  recognized  the  shade  of  him  who,  for 
cowardice,  made  the  great  refusal.  Forthwith 
I  understood  and  was  convinced  that  this  was  the 
sect  of  poltroons,  obnoxious  both  to  God  and  to 
God's  enemies.  These  luckless  creatures,  who 

[45] 


never  had  been  really  alive,  were  naked  and  badly 
stung  by  flies  and  wasps  which  were  there.  These 
insects  streaked  their  faces  with  blood,  which, 
mixed  with  tears,  was  caught  by  disgusting  worms 
at  their  feet." 

Not  one  of  these  souls  is  named  by  the  poet. 
One,  and  only  one,  is  so  described  as  to  admit  of 
possible  identification  —  he  "  who,  for  cowardice, 
made  the  great  refusal."  This  is  in  all  prob- 
ability Celestine  V,  Pope  in  1294,  a  simple,  pious 
man,  inadequate  to  his  great  trust,  who  quickly 
abdicated,  leaving  the  office  to  the  hated  Boniface 
VIII.  An  old  legend  relates  that  after  his  re- 
nunciation he  fled  from  place  to  place,  seeking  to 
hide  his  shame:  but  wherever  he  went,  he  was 
recognized,  pointed  out,  and  called  by  name,  even 
by  those  who  had  never  seen  him  before. 

So  much  for  those  who,  instead  of  confronting 
evil  manfully,  try  to  avoid  it.  Dante,  as  we  have 
just  seen,  has  little  mercy  on  them,  although  he 
apprehended,  as  clearly  as  anyone  who  ever  lived, 
what  a  terrifying  thing  evil  is.  More  and  more 
its  horror  swells,  as  we  follow  the  poet  through 
the  ranks  of  the  damned,  until  the  awfulness 
reaches  its  culmination  in  the  gigantic  figure  of 
Satan,  —  monarch  of  Hell,  embodiment  of  all 
wickedness,  —  planted  for  eternity  in  the  centre 
of  the  earth,  fixed  in  the  middle  of  the  round  plain 
of  ice,  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit,  over  which  Virgil 
and  Dante  are  traveling. 

'The  standards  of  the  King  approach  —  the 
king  of  Hell  —  drawing  near  to  us.     Therefore 

[46] 


MORALITY 

look  ahead,'  said  my  master,  '  and  see  whether 
thou  canst  discern  him.'  As,  when  a  thick  fog  is 
blowing,  or  when  our  hemisphere  is  wrapped  in 
night,  a  mill  looks  from  afar,  if  turned  by  the 
wind,  such  an  engine  I  thought  I  saw  then.  But 
the  wind  made  me  cower  behind  my  leader,  for 
there  was  no  other  shelter.  Already,  and  with 
fear  I  set  it  to  metre,  I  was  where  the  shades  were 
wholly  covered  [by  the  ice],  and  showed  through 
like  a  bit  of  straw  in  glass.  Some  are  prostrate, 
others  erect,  others,  like  a  bow,  curve  face  to  feet. 
When  we  had  gone  so  far  ahead  that  it  was  my 
master's  pleasure  to  disclose  to  me  the  creature 
which  once  had  the  form  of  beauty,  he  stepped  out 
from  before  me,  saying:  '  Lo !  Dis,  and  lo !  the 
place  where  thou  must  arm  thyself  with  strength.' 
How  cold  and  limp  I  then  became,  ask  not,  reader, 
for  I  write  it  not,  because  any  speech  would  fall 
short.  I  did  not  die,  nor  did  I  remain  alive:  now 
consider  for  thyself,  if  thou  hast  a  grain  of  wit, 
what  I  became,  bereft  of  both.  The  emperor  of 
the  realm  of  grief  projected  from  the  ice  from 
half-way  up  his  chest;  and  I  am  more  comparable 
to  a  giant  than  giants  are  to  his  arms.  Now  see 
how  big  the  whole  must  be  which  is  proportionate 
to  such  a  part.  If  he  was  once  as  fair  as  he  is 
ugly  now,  and  [nevertheless]  lifted  his  brows 
against  his  Maker,  it  is  right  indeed  that  all 
mourning  should  proceed  from  him.  Oh !  what 
a  mighty  marvel  it  seemed  to  me  when  I  beheld 
three  faces  on  his  head!  One  was  in  front,  and 
that  was  red;  the  other  two  joined  this  just  above 

[47] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

the  middle  of  either  shoulder,  and  met  where  the 
crest  is.  The  right  hand  one  looked  between  white 
and  yellow;  the  left  was  such  to  see  as  come  from 
the  country  where  the  Nile  descends.  Under  each 
one  jutted  two  huge  wings,  big  as  befitted  such  a 
great  bird:  I  never  saw  ship's  sails  to  match  them. 
They  had  no  feathers,  but  batlike  was  their  style. 
These  he  flapped,  so  that  three  winds  issued  from 
him,  by  which  all  Cocytus  was  frozen.  With  six 
eyes  he  was  weeping,  and  over  three  chins  drooled 
tears  and  bloody  slaver.  With  each  mouth  he 
was  crushing  a  sinner  between  his  teeth,  like  a 
heckle,  so  that  three  of  them  were  tortured  thus. 
For  the  one  in  fron.t  the  biting  was  nothing,  com- 
pared to  the  scratching,  for  now  and  again  his 
spine  would  be  all  stripped  of  skin.  '  That  soul 
up  yonder,  which  has  the  worst  punishment,'  said 
my  master,  '  is  Judas  Iscariot,  who  has  his  head 
within  and  brandishes  his  legs  outside.  Of  the 
other  two,  whose  heads  are  below,  the  one  dang- 
ling from  the  black  snout  is  Brutus —  see  how  he 
writhes,  without  a  word;  and  the  other  is  Cassius, 
who  looks  so  stout  of  limb.  But  night  is  rising  up 
again,  and  now  we  must  go;  for  we  have  seen 
all.' ' 

Such  is  sin,  degenerate,  hideous,  f earful  - 
three-faced,  in  opposition  to  the  three  Persons  of 
the  Holy  Trinity.  The  three  faces  correspond, 
it  would  seem,  to  the  three  kinds  of  wickedness; 
so  do  the  three  winds,  which  symbolize  diabolical 
suggestion.  Dante's  classification  of  wrongdoing 
is  based  on  Aristotle,  although  his  phraseology  is 

[48] 


MORALITY 

somewhat  colored  by  Cicero.  His  Hell  falls  into 
three  parts,  containing  respectively  faults  of  weak- 
ness, violence,  and  fraud.  Aristotle's  weakness 
the  poet  calls  "  incontinence,"  or  lack  of  self- 
control;  this  category  comprises  luxury,  gluttony, 
avarice,  prodigality,  anger,  which  are  placed  in 
the  Upper  Hell.  In  the  Lower  Hell,  or  City  of 
Dis,  are  the  other  two  classes.  Violence,  which 
is  Cicero's  term,  corresponds  in  Dante's  scheme 
to  Aristotle's  "bestiality:"  murder,  robbery,  sui- 
cide, blasphemy  of  word  or  deed  are  sins  of 
violence,  directed  against  one's  fellow  creatures, 
one's  self,  or  God.  Cicero's  fraud  is  equivalent  to 
Aristotle's  "malice";  and  Dante  puts  it  at  the 
bottom  of  the  list.  It  is  subdivided,  according  as 
the  deception  is  practised  on  persons  who  have  no 
special  reason  for  confidence,  or  on  those  who  are 
bound  to  the  deceiver  by  a  particular  tie  of  kin- 
ship, patriotism,  hospitality,  or  benefaction:  on  the 
one  hand  we  have  cheats;  on  the  other,  traitors. 
These  last  are  the  worst  sinners  of  all  —  men  with 
hearts  of  ice  and  souls  of  fiends,  who  have  per- 
verted the  gift  of  intelligence  to  an  instrument  of 
pure  evil.  And  worst  among  them  are  the  three 
we  have  just  seen  in  the  jaws  of  Lucifer:  Judas, 
who  betrayed  the  founder  of  the  Church;  Brutus 
and  Cassius,  who  betrayed  the  founder  of  the 
Empire.  In  this  philosophical  plan  there  is  no 
place  for  the  specifically  Christian  sins  of  unbelief. 
For  virtuous  pagans  and  unbaptized  children  the 
Church  had  provided  a  limbns,  or  "fringe"  of 
the  lower  world:  this  limbus  Dante  locates  at  the 

[49] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

top  of  his  Upper  Hell;  for  heretics  he  invents  a 
somewhat  similar  edge,  or  brink,  at  the  top  of 
his  Lower  Hell.  Outside  the  frontier,  but  within 
the  gate,  as  we  have  noted,  is  his  vestibule  for 
neutrals. 

Dante's  Hell  is  a  vast  cavern  under  the  crust 
of  our  globe.  Its  general  shape  is  conical,  with 
the  apex  at  the  earth's  centre.  The  lost  souls 
and  the  demons  inhabit  terraces  that  encircle  its 
declivity.  Of  course  he  had  no  idea  that  his  elab- 
oration of  detail  corresponded  to  the  real  facts : 
his  topography  is  symbolic,  illustrative  of  his 
classification  of  sins.  But  Hell  as  a  whole,  a  place 
of  eternal,  horrible,  merciless  punishment,  prob- 
ably underground,  was  to  him  an  absolute  reality. 
In  all  probability,  he  believed  also  that  this 
punishment  is  physical,  that  Hell-fire  is  to  be 
taken  literally,  not  metaphorically:  at  least,  that 
is  the  conclusion  reached  by  his  master,  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas,  who  points  out,  however,  that  the  para- 
dox of  disembodied  spirits  tortured  by  material 
means  is  beyond  human  comprehension.  Endless 
and  hopeless  agony  is  the  lot  of  those  mortals, 
who,  of  their  own  free  choice,  in  spite  of  God's 
sacrifice  of  himself,  in  spite  of  the  offer  of  for- 
giveness up  to  the  very  moment  of  death,  persist 
in  their  ungrateful  rebellion  against  their  Maker, 
and  prove  themselves  unworthy  to  dwell  with  the 
blest.  If  the  Lord's  justice  is  as  unrelenting  as  his 
mercy  is  untiring,  if  he  can  damn  forever  the  un- 
changeably wicked,  surely  the  just  man,  merciful 
though  he  be  by  nature,  has  reason  to  assume 

[50] 


MORALITY*, 

toward  wickednesS^aiLattitudgxof  uncompromising 
hate.  The  more  we  love  God,  the  more  we  abhor 
his  enemies. 

Purgatory,  likewise,  was  entirely  real  to  our 
poet,  more  definitely  fixed  by  tradition  in  its  de- 
tailed arrangement,  but  more  vaguely  located  as 
a  whole.  Dante,  in  his  symbolic  invention,  happily 
places  it,  not  in  the  gloomy  inside  of  the  earth, 
but,  as  we  have  seen,  on  the  surface,  around  the 
upper  slopes  of  a  huge  mountain  that  rises  from 
an  island  in  the  middle  of  the  sea.  Running  about 
the  peak  are  seven  narrow  shelves,  on  which  the 
souls  of  repentant  sinners  are  doing  penance  for 
the  sins  for  which  atonement  was  not  made  before 
death.  The  terraces  are  seven  because  seven  are 
the  capital  vices,  the  evil  tendencies  acquired  by 
humanity,  the  sources  of  all  varieties  of  sin.  By 
making  amends  in  Purgatory  for  their  past  mis- 
deeds, the  spirits  are  eradicating  the  inclination  to 
wickedness,  purifying  themselves  and  preparing 
themselves  for  Heaven.  This  reformatory  func- 
tion of  Purgatory  is  so  stressed  by  Dante  as  almost 
to  obscure  its  merely  retributive  purpose.  The 
torments  are,  to  be  sure,  terrible,  and  may  last 
for  centuries,  but  their  duration  is  as  nothing  com- 
pared to  an  eternity  of  blessedness  which  is  sure 
to  ensue,  and  they  are  undertaken  willingly,  cheer- 
fully by  the  penitents,  even  as  we  gladly  accept  a 
bitter  medicine,  knowing  that  it  will  restore  our 
health.  The  burden  of  Dante's  Pnrgatorio  is  the 
joy  and  hopefulness  of  self-discipline. 

The  seven  fundamental  vices,  or  evil  human 

[50 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

habits,  arc,  beginning  with  the  worst:  pride,  envy, 
anger,  sloth,  avarice  and  prodigality,  gluttony, 
luxury.  Four  of  these  have  corresponding  places 
in  Dante's  Hell.  The  other  three  —  pride,  envy, 
sloth  —  manifest  themselves  in  various  kinds  of 
wrongdoing,  which  wicked  acts  form  the  basis  of 
classification  in  the  world  of  the  damned.  Pride, 
indeed,  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  sin,  and  envy  is 
responsible  for  many  of  the  worst  crimes.  The 
penance  of  the  proud  is  self-humiliation:  crushed 
and  crouching  under  heavy  weights,  which  they 
carry  on  their  backs,  they  crawl  slowly  and  pain- 
fully around  their  terrace.  The  envious  must 
practise  self-denial :  in  the  garb  and  posture  of 
beggars,  they  sit  on  the  ground,  along  the  wall, 
their  eyes  closed  by  an  iron  wire  which  sews  them 
up. 

I  do  not  think  there  walks  the  earth  to-day 
A  man  so  hard  as  not  to  feel  the  stab 
Of  sympathy  for  what  before  me  lay. 

Among  the  repentant  proud  is  Provenzano 
Salvani,  "  who  takes  up  so  little  of  the  way;  once 
all  Tuscany  reechoed  with  his  name,  and  now  it 
is  barely  whispered  in  Siena,  which  he  ruled." 
His  pride  was  the  pride  of  power.  His  entrance 
to  Purgatory  was  hastened  by  an  act  of  humility 
performed  on  earth.  One  of  his  friends  having 
been  captured  by  Charles  of  Anjou  and  held  for 
a  high  ransom,  Provenzano,  curbing  his  haughti- 
ness, took  his  stand  in  the  public  square  of  Siena 
and  begged  of  the  passers-by  until  he  had  col- 
lected the  amount.  This  self-mortification,  which, 

[52] 


the  poet  says,  "  made  him  to  quiver  in  every  vein," 
won  him  an  advance  in  the  other  world.  A  second 
of  the  penitents  represents  pride  of  birth.  Om- 
berto  Aldobrandesco,  count  of  Santafiore,  whom 
"  his  ancient  blood  and  the  fair  deeds  of  his 
ancestors  made  so  arrogant  that,  forgetting  our 
common  mother,  he  held  every  man  in  contempt." 
A  third  spirit  is  doing  penance  for  the  pride  of 
art.  "  As  I  walked,"  says  Dante,  "  I  bent  my  face 
down,  and  one  of  them  —  not  the  one  who  had 
been  speaking  —  twisted  himself  under  the  weight 
that  bowed  him,  and  saw  and  recognized  me,  and 
called  to  me,  with  difficulty  keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me,  who  walked  all  stooping  like  the  rest. 
'Oh!  '  said  I  to  him,  '  art  thou  not  Oderisi,  the 
glory  of  Gubbio,  and  the  glory  of  that  art  which 
in  Paris  is  termed  illuminating?'1  'Brother,'  he 
answered,  '  the  pages  that  Franco  Bolognese  paints 
are  more  smiling  than  mine.  The  glory  is  now  all 
his  —  and  mine  in  part.  Never  should  I  have 
been  so  courteous  while  I  was  alive,  because  of  my 
great  craving  to  excel,  on  which  my  heart  was  set. 
Here  I  am  paying  the  forfeit  for  that  pride.  And 
I  should  not  yet  be  here,  if  it  were  not  that,  while 
I  still  had  strength  to  sin,  I  turned  to  God.  O 
vain  glory  of  human  power!  What  a  little  while 
the  green  lasts  at  the  tip  of  the  tree,  unless  ignorant 
generations  follow!  Cimabue  once  thought  to 
hold  the  field  in  painting,  and  now  Giotto  has  the 
cry,  so  that  his  fame  is  darkened.  Thus  one  Guido 
hath  robbed  the  other  of  the  glory  of  the  pen; 
and  haply  someone  is  already  born  who  shall 

[53] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

drive  them  both  from  the  nest.  Earthly  reputa- 
tion is  naught  but  a  blast  of  wind,  which  blows 
now  from  this  side,  now  from  that,  and  changes 
its  name  when  it  changes  its  quarter.'  '  The  two 
Guides  are  Guido  Guinizelli,  Dante's  predecessor 
and  model,  and  Guido  Cavalcanti,  Dante's  "  first 
friend."  Something  of  the  pride  of  art  —  a  most 
legitimate  pride  if  any  be  lawful  —  our  author 
had  himself;  for  he  knew  of  course  that  the 
"  someone  already  born "  would  suggest  to  the 
reader  the  poet's  own  name  and  no  other.  Pride 
of  birth  he  had  also,  as  we  shall  see  later.  In 
fact,  he  seems  to  have  regarded  pride  as  his  be- 
setting sin.  That  is  what  he  means,  when  he 
speaks  of  bending  and  stooping  like  the  burdened 
spirits  who  are  being  punished  for  that  sin,  and 
when  he  continues:  "  side  by  side,  like  oxen  under 
the  yoke,  I  walked  beside  that  laden  soul." 

Envy,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  sin  to  which  Dante 
thought  himself  but  little  addicted.  As  he  is  pass- 
ing by  the  row  of  blinded  penitents  on  the  terrace 
of  the  envious,  he  feels  embarrassed  at  his  own 
freedom  from  their  torment.  "  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  insulting  them  as  I  walked  along,  seeing 
others,  but  not  seen  by  them;  and  I  turned  to  my 
wise  counselor.  He  well  knew  what  my  dumb 
show  meant,  and  therefore  did  not  await  my  ques- 
tion, but  said:  'Speak,  and  be  brief  and  to  the 
point!  '  Virgil  was  beside  me  on  that  side  of  the 
shelf  from  which  one  might  have  fallen  off,  be- 
cause it  is  encircled  by  no  parapet.  On  the  other 
side  of  me  were  the  devout  shades,  whose  tears 

[54] 


MORALITY 

so  pressed  through  their  horrible  stitches  that  they 
wet  their  cheeks.  I  turned  to  them  and  spake : 
'  O  company  sure  of  beholding  that  heavenly  light 
upon  which  alone  your  desire  is  bent,  tell  me  — 
so  may  grace  quickly  melt  the  scum  of  your  con- 
science and  let  the  stream  of  memory  run  through 
it  undefiled! —  tell  me  (and  it  shall  be  dear  and 
precious  to  me)  whether  any  soul  here  among  you 
is  Italian;  and  perhaps  it  will  be  well  for  that 
spirit,  if  I  am  told.'  '  O  brother  mine,  each  one 
of  us  is  a  citizen  of  a  true  city.  But  thou  meanest 
one  who  lived  in  Italy  during  his  pilgrimage.' 
This  I  seemed  to  hear  as  a  reply  a  little  further 
on  than  the  place  where  I  was  standing;  and  so 
I  made  myself  heard  a  bit  ahead.  Among  the 
others  I  saw  a  shade  that  looked  as  if  it  were 
waiting;  and  if  anyone  should  ask  'How  [did  it 
show  it]?  '  [I  should  answer],  it  was  lifting  up 
its  chin  like  a  blind  man.  '  Spirit,'  said  I,  '  that 
dost  discipline  thyself  in  order  to  ascend,  if  thou 
art  the  one  that  replied  to  me,  reveal  thyself  by 
town  or  name.'  '  I  was  from  Siena,'  it  responded, 
'  and  with  these  others  I  am  here  cleansing  my 
guilty  life,  weeping  to  God,  that  he  may  lend  him- 
self to  us.  Prudent  was  I  not,  although  my  name 
was  Prudence,  and  I  took  more  pleasure  in  other 
people's  disasters  than  in  my  own  good  luck.  And 
to  show  thee  that  I  am  not  deceiving  thee,  hear 
whether  I  was  mad  as  I  say,  when  I  was  already 
on  the  downward  slant  of  my  years.  My  fellow- 
citizens  had  come  to  battle  with  their  enemies  near 
Colle;  and  I  was  praying  God  for  something  that 

[55] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

he  had  already  decreed.  There  they  were  broken 
and  turned  to  bitter  flight;  and  seeing  the  rout 
I  felt  joy  beyond  any  other  —  such  joy  that  I 
lifted  my  bold  face  to  Heaven,  crying  to  the  Lord: 
"Now  I  fear  thee  no  more!"  as  the  blackbird 
does  when  there  is  a  little  fair  weather.  Peace 
I  sought  with  God  at  the  end  of  my  life;  but  my 
debt  would  not  yet  be  lessened  by  penance,  were  it 
not  that  Peter  the  Comb-seller,  who  in  his  charity 
was  sorry  for  me,  remembered  me  in  his  holy 
prayers.' ' 

While  the  punishments  in  Purgatory  are  ter- 
rible, none  of  them  are  disgusting  or  grotesque, 
as  are  many  of  those  in  Hell.  The  penitents  are 
on  their  way  to  Heaven,  and  therefore  worthy  of 
respect  and  sympathy,  however  hard  their  way 
may  be.  The  damned,  all  of  them,  merit  only 
hatred  and  contempt.  However,  the  Dante  who 
journeys  through  Hell  is  still  a  sinner,  moved  by 
human  impulses;  and  this  imperfection  of  the 
protagonist  allows  the  poet  freedom  to  manifest 
his  own  reaction  to  various  kinds  of  wickedness. 
The  sight  of  ferocious  wrath  excites  him  to  such 
a  pitch  of  indignation  that  he  is  eager  to  see  the 
worst  retribution  wreaked  on  it.  In  the  presence 
of  treachery,  he  is  impelled  to  do  violence  to  the 
sinners  himself,  and  even  to  cheat  one  of  them 
cruelly  by  a  false  promise.  Amorousness,  on  the 
contrary,  makes  him  swoon  with  pity.  By  wrang- 
ling and  strife  he  is  fascinated,  against  his  better 
judgment.  The  fate  of  soothsayers  and  sorcerers 
moves  him  to  tears,  for  which  he  is  sharply  re- 

[56] 


buked  by  Virgil.  Dante's  own  feeling  toward  the 
different  types  of  wrongdoing  is  shown  not  only 
in  the  varying  attitude  he  ascribes  to  himself  in 
the  narrative  (this  is  doubtless  due  in  large  meas- 
ure to  theoretical  reasons)  but  also,  and  on  the 
whole  more  surely,  in  the  nature  of  the  penalties 
he  metes  out  to  them.  In  the  plan  of  his  Hell 
and  his  classification  of  sins  there  is  nothing  emo- 
tional, his  arrangement  being  objectively  philo- 
sophical. But  in  his  assignment  of  punishments 
we  can  see  something  of  the  author's  individual 
preferences  and  repugnances. 

Some  sins  evidently  aroused  in  Dante  only 
loathing.  Most  loathsome  of  all  is  flattery,  which 
is  very  briefly  disposed  of,  in  terms  of  untrans- 
latable nastiness.  Flattery  the  poor  exile  must 
have  learned  to  know  and  to  hate,  when  he  was 
dependent  on  the  hospitality  of  the  rich,  a  com- 
petitor—  and  doubtless  a  frequently  unsuccessful 
one  —  for  their  favor.  Gluttony  excited  in  him 
nothing  but  disgust,  although  he  might  feel  sym- 
pathy and  affection  for  a  glutton  who  had  re- 
deeming qualities.  Forese  Donati  was  his  close 
friend.  To  Ciacco,  in  Hell,  the  poet  says:  "Thy 
anguish  grieves  me  so  that  it  bids  me  weep."  The 
torment  itself,  however,  has  in  it  nothing  sug- 
gestive of  tenderness.  Gluttony  is  punished  in 
the  Upper  Hell  in  the  third  circle  : 

Into  the  third,  the  ring  of  rain  I  came  — 
Unending  rain,  accursed,  heavy,  cold, 
In  kind  and  fall  eternally  the  same. 

Thick  hail  and  snow  and  water  dark  and  old 

[57] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

Pour  ever  down  and  down  the  murky  air ; 
And  stinks  the  ground  which  all  the  stuff  doth  hold. 
Here  fierce  uncanny  Cerberus  hath  his  lair, 
Three-throated  barketh,  even  as  a  dog, 
O'er  all  the  people  who  are  sunken  there. 

At  the  approach  of  the  travelers,  Cerberus,  the 
embodiment  of  greediness,  opens  his  maws  and 
shows  his  fangs,  quivering  in  every  limb ;  but  Vir- 
gil pacifies  him  by  casting  into  his  mouths  a 
handful  of  mud. 

As  barks  a  hungry  dog,  on  eating  bent, 
And  then  is  silent  when  he  bites  his  meat, 
On  bolting  it  combatively  intent, 

E'en  so  those  filthy  muzzles  were  replete. 

Avarice  was  abhorrent  to  Dante,  and  he  re- 
peatedly inveighs  against  it  as  the  vice  most  fatal 
to  mankind.  Yet  his  conscience  told  him  that  it 
was  intrinsically  no  worse  than  prodigality,  to 
which  the  poet  himself  —  as  we  have  reason  to 
believe  —  was  somewhat  prone.  Both  are  sins  of 
excess,  departures  from  moderation,  in  the  use  of 
money.  Therefore,  in  Purgatory  as  in  Hell, 
avarice  and  prodigality  are  classed  together  and 
subjected  to  the  same  retribution.  In  fact,  in  the 
lower  world,  Dante  sets  aside  those  mad  spend- 
thrifts who  run  to  destruction,  and  places  them  far 
below  the  misers,  on  a  level  with  the  suicides.  The 
essential  feature  of  both  ordinary  stinginess  and 
ordinary  lavishness  is,  to  Dante's  mind,  its  la- 
borious futility.  Human  beings,  capable  of  the 
highest  flights,  are  bending  all  their  energies  on 
the  acquisition  or  the  dispersal  of  things  without 

[58] 


MORALITY 

value,  forever  shifting  worthless  matter  to  and 
fro.  So  the  two  classes,  misers  and  spendthrifts, 
are  pictured  in  the  fourth  circle  of  Hell,  incessantly 
rolling  huge  weights  in  this  direction  and  in  that, 
halfway  around  their  ring,  bumping  into  each 
other  at  their  two  meeting-points,  and  then  start- 
ing back  again  to  begin  afresh. 

Descending  to  the  fourth,  from  worse  to  worse, 
Further  adown  the  doleful  pit  we  go, 
Which  bags  the  evil  of  the  universe. 

Justice  divine !  now  who  hath  packt  below 
The  curious  torments  I  am  witnessing? 
Why  doth  our  foolish  sin  despoil  us  so? 

E'en  as  the  swells  above  Charybdis  swing, 
Breaking  against  the  waves  they  go  to  meet, 
So  dance  the  spirits  in  their  endless  ring. 

One  would  have  expected  hypocrisy  to  arouse 
in  Dante  much  the  same  disgust  as  flattery;  but 
his  reaction  to  it  —  judging  from  the  penalty  he 
decrees  —  was  quite  diverse.  Perhaps  he  had 
encountered  less  of  this  vice  in  his  own  dealings 
with  men,  and  therefore  looked  at  it  more  ab- 
stractly. At  any  rate,  what  most  impressed  him 
in  hypocrisy  was  the  irony  of  it:  the  hypocrite, 
cloaking  his  evil  designs  in  a  show  of  righteous- 
ness, trying  to  impose  upon  his  fellowmen,  is 
constantly  imposing  on  himself  a  burden  greater 
than  any  that  his  intended  victims  bear  —  a 
mantle  of  solid  lead,  gilded  on  the  outside. 
"  Down  below,"  says  Dante,  "  we  found  a  painted 
troop,  which  was  marching  around  with  steps  ex- 
ceeding slow,  weeping,  with  a  tired,  exhausted 

[59] 


THE    POWER   OF    DANTE 

look.  They  had  capes  with  cowls  lowered  over 
their  eyes,  cut  on  the  pattern  that  is  made  for  the 
monks  in  Cologne.  Without,  they  are  gilded, 
dazzling  to  the  eye;  but  inside,  all  of  lead.  .  .  . 
O  endlessly  wearisome  mantle !  We  turned  once 
more  to  the  left,  in  their  direction,  interested  in 
their  sad  tears;  but  those  tired  people,  hampered 
by  their  load,  came  so  slowly  that  we  changed  our 
company  at  every  movement  of  the  hips.  Where- 
fore I  besought  my  leader:  '  Pray,  find  out  some- 
one known  by  deed  or  name ;  turn  thine  eyes  about, 
as  we  walk  thus !  '  And  one  of  them,  who  caught 
my  Tuscan  speech,  shouted  after  us :  '  Stay  your 
feet,  ye  who  run  so  fast  through  the  dark  air! 
Haply  mayst  thou  get  from  me  what  thou  seekest.' 
Whereupon  my  guide  turned  and  said:  'Wait, 
and  then  proceed  at  his  pace.'  I  stopped,  and  two 
of  them  I  saw  showing  in  their  faces  great  mental 
haste  to  be  with  me;  but  their  burden  and  the 
narrowness  of  the  way  retarded  them.  When  they 
were  come,  they  looked  at  me  askance,  in  silence, 
for  a  long  while;  then  turned  to  each  other,  say- 
ing: *  This  man,  from  the  movement  of  his  throat, 
seemeth  alive!  If  they  are  dead,  by  what  privi- 
lege do  they  walk  without  the  covering  of  the 
heavy  robe? ' 

Some  sins  appeared  to  our  author  not  only 
hateful,  but  absurd,  grotesque  in  their  perversity. 
Such  crimes  were  malfeasance  in  public  office  and 
the  misuse  of  churchly  authority  for  personal 
profit.  Grafters  are  immersed  in  a  cleft  full  of 
boiling  pitch,  and  demons,  armed  with  forks  and 
[60] 


MORALITY 

prongs,  fish  for  them  from  the  banks.  How 
simonists  are  punished,  Dante  tells  thus:  "I  saw 
all  over  the  sides  and  bottom  [of  the  valley]  the 
livid  rock  full  of  holes,  all  of  one  size,  and  every 
one  was  round.  .  .  .  Out  of  the  mouth  of  each 
projected  the  feet  of  a  sinner,  and  his  legs  as  far 
as  the  thick  part,  the  rest  being  inside.  The  soles 
of  all  the  feet  were  blazing;  and  that  made  them 
wriggle  their  joints  so  hard  that  they  would  have 
broken  bands  and  ropes.  As  flame  burns  greasy 
things,  flitting  only  over  the  outermost  rind,  so  it 
was  there  from  heels  to  toes." 

The  same  idea  of  perversion  we  find,  but  with- 
out the  note  of  mockery,  in  the  treatment  of  for- 
tune-tellers and  magicians,  persons  who,  endowed 
with  superior  intelligence,  devoted  it  to  a  for- 
bidden purpose.  Having  tried  to  look  too  far 
into  the  future,  they  are  condemned  to  look  back- 
ward forevermore:  their  perverse  heads  are 
twisted  to  the  rear,  as  the  perverse  clerics  are 
planted  upside  down.  "  Already  I  was  all  intent 
on  gazing  into  the  chasm  which  lay  open,  wet 
with  tears  of  agony.  And  I  saw  people  coming 
through  the  round  valley,  silent  and  weeping,  at 
the  pace  of  religious  processions  in  our  world. 
As  my  sight  penetrated  lower  among  them,  each 
one  appeared  incredibly  contorted  between  the 
chin  and  the  beginning  of  the  chest;  for  the  face 
was  turned  toward  the  kidneys,  and  they  were 
constrained  to  march  backwards,  since  they  were 
bereft  of  the  power  of  looking  to  the  front.  It 
may  have  sometimes  happened  that  violent  paraly- 
[61] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

sis  hath  so  misshapen  a  man;  but  I  have  never  seen 
it,  and  do  not  believe  it  occurs.  Reader,  as  thou 
hopest  that  God  may  permit  thee  to  profit  by  thy 
reading,  now  consider  for  thyself  how  I  could 
keep  a  dry  face  when  I  beheld  our  form,  close  at 
hand,  so  distorted  that  the  tears  fell  from  the  eyes 
adown  the  back!  " 

There  is  another  kind  of  perversion,  — that  of 
the  common  cheat,  such  as  the  counterfeiter  or  the 
transmuter  of  metals,  —  which  provokes  nothing 
but  unmitigated  contempt  and  ridicule.  Here  are 
the  swindlers,  disfigured  by  horrid  disease:  "The 
suffering  was  as  great  as  if  all  the  sick  people  from 
the  hospitals  of  [malarial]  Valdichiana  between 
July  and  September,  and  from  Maremma  and 
Sardinia,  \vere  all  gathered  in  one  ditch;  and  a 
stench  came  from  them,  such  as  comes  from  putrid 
limbs.  .  .  .  Thus  were  spirits  languishing,  piled 
up  in  stacks.  One  was  heaped  upon  another,  on 
belly  or  on  back;  another,  on  its  face,  was  crawling 
over  the  doleful  way.  Step  by  step  we  walked, 
watching  and  listening  to  the  invalids,  who  could 
not  lift  themselves.  Two  I  beheld  leaning  against 
each  other,  as  pan  is  propped  up  against  pan  to 
dry.  From  head  to  foot  they  were  spotted  with 
scabs;  and  never  have  I  seen  currycomb  plied  by 
a  stableboy  whose  master  is  waiting  for  him,  or 
who  is  eager  to  go  to  bed,  so  briskly  as  each  of 
these  continually  plied  upon  himself  the  sharp 
edge  of  his  nails  (because  of  the  raging  itch,  which 
has  no  other  relief),  pulling  down  the  scurf  with 
his  nails,  as  a  knife  doth  the  scales  of  a  bream  — 
[62] 


MORALITY 

or  of  any  other  fish  that  hath  still  bigger  ones. 
'  O  thou  that  with  thy  fingers  dost  strip  off  thy 
mail,'  began  my  leader  to  one  of  them,  '  and  that 
from  time  to  time  dost  turn  them  into  pincers,  tell 
us  whether  any  Italian  is  among  those  who  are 
in  here,  so  may  thy  nail  suffice  thee  eternally  for 
this  business.'  '  Italians  are  we  both,  whom  thou 
seest  here  so  wasted,'  answered  one  of  them  weep- 
ing; 'but  who  art  thou,  who  dost  question  us?' 
And  my  leader  answered:  '  I  am  descending  with 
this  live  man  down  from  ledge  to  ledge,  engaged 
in  showing  Hell  to  him.'  At  that  the  common  sup- 
port [of  the  two]  was  broken,  and  each  one  turned 
to  me  all  quivering;  and  so  did  others  who  caught 
the  word  on  the  rebound." 

No  superior  intelligence  is  here,  to  awaken 
sympathy  for  these  wretches;  no  pride  of  intellect 
led  them  astray.  The  author  shows  them  no  such 
pity  as  he  bestows  on  the  soothsayers. 

Dante,  proudly  conscious  of  mental  powers  be- 
yond the  ordinary,  felt  himself  akin  to  the  men  of 
genius  who  were  similarly  endowed;  and  respected 
them  even  in  their  downfall.  The  intellectual  gift 
which,  perverted,  brought  the  sorcerers  to  ruin, 
was  wrongfully  used  also  by  the  heretics,  whose 
punishment  is  burial  in  a  fiery  tomb,  and  by  the 
evil  counselors,  who  walk  enveloped  in  tongues 
of  flame,  looking,  when  viewed  from  above,  like 
fireflies  in  a  valley  at  dusk.  In  these  punishments 
there  is  something  that  approaches  dignity  and 
even  beauty. 

Upon  another  class  of  sinners,   the  amorous, 

[63] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

Dante,  the  great  lover,  could  not  bear  to  inflict  a 
debasing  penalty.  After  death,  as  in  life,  they  are 
wafted  helplessly  before  a  blast  that  never  dies. 

All  dumb  of  light  the  place  which  now  I  find. 
It  bellows  like  the  sea  on  stormy  days, 
When  swept  by  striving  squalls  and  angry  wind. 

The  blast  of  Hell,  which  never  stops  nor  stays, 
The  spirits  on  its  giddy  current  flings, 
With  whirl  and  clash  tormenting  them  always. 

As  starlings  oft  are  carried  by  their  wings 
In  winter  time,  a  broad  and  serried  train, 
E'en  so  the  gust  the  guilty  spirits  swings. 

Here,  there,  it  drives  them,  up  and  down  again. 
No  hope  of  rest  consoles  the  wraiths  below, 
Not  even  hope  of  mitigated  pain. 

As  cranes  their  doleful  ditty  singing  go 

And  make  across  the  sky  a  lengthening  streak, 
Thus  souls  I  saw  approach,  with  voice  of  woe, 

Transported  by  the  storm  whereof  I  speak. 


[64] 


LECTURE   III 
TEMPERAMENT 

How  greatly  our  enjoyment  of  an  author  is 
enhanced  by  the  possession  of  his  likeness  and  by 
some  knowledge  of  his  personality!  We  crave 
something  concrete  upon  which  to  centre  our  ad- 
miration, our  gratitude,  our  affection.  When  we 
read  Homer,  of  whose  individuality  we  have  no 
knowledge  whatever,  we  like  to  keep  in  our  mind's 
eye  some  fanciful  portrait-bust  that  has  come  down 
from  antiquity.  Shakspere  is  dearer  to  us"  for 
what  we  know  of  his  life  and  looks,  vague  though 
that  acquaintance  be.  In  the  case  of  a  writer  as 
autobiographical  as  Dante,  the  need  of  a  tangible 
focus  is  even  more  pronounced  than  it  is  with  an 
impersonal  genius  like  Homer  or  Shakspere. 
Fortunately  we  have  for  our  poet  something  to 
satisfy  our  want,  a  face  that  presides  over  our 
reading,  an  image  that  we  may  call  up  at  will :  the 
presentment  of  the  youthful  Florentine,  left  us  by 
Giotto  in  the  Bargello,  is  sufficiently  authentic  to 
fill  our  demand,  and,  at  the  same  time,  is  adequate 
to  our  conception  of  what  the  author  of  the  Vita 
Ntiova  should  be.  It  is  a  strong  and  noble  figure, 
refined,  intelligent,  self-contained,  thoughtful  but 
not  sad.  Such  an  Alighieri  it  was  that  Lionardo 

[65] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Bruni  described:  "  He  was  courteous,  spirited,  and 
full  of  courage;  he  took  part  in  every  youthful 
exercise;  and  in  the  great  and  memorable  battle 
of  Campaldino,  Dante,  young  but  well  esteemed, 
fought  vigorously,  mounted  and  in  the  front 
rank."  While  he  devoted  himself  eagerly  to 
study,  Bruni  continues,  he  "  omitted  naught  of 
polite  and  social  intercourse.  It  was  remarkable 
that,  although  he  studied  incessantly,  none  would 
have  supposed  from  his  happy  manner  and  youth- 
ful way  of  speaking  that  he  studied  at  all." 

Another  Dante  face  is  familiar  to  us,  the  face 
of  the  death  mask  and  of  the  Naples  bust — a  face, 
which,  though  we  cannot  trace  it  back  to  the  man 
himself,  is  so  wonderful  in  its  power  and  its 
infinite  sadness  that  we  like  to  think  of  it  as  his. 
It  tallies  well  with  Boccaccio's  account,  except 
that,  like  the  Giotto  portrait,  it  is  beardless. 
"  Our  poet  was  of  moderate  height,"  says  Boc- 
caccio, "  and,  after  reaching  maturity,  was  accus- 
tomed to  walk  somewhat  bowed,  with  a  slow  and 
gentle  pace,  clad  always  in  such  sober  dress  as 
befitted  his  ripe  years.  His  face  was  long,  his 
nose  aquiline,  and  his  eyes  rather  big  than  small. 
His  jaws  were  large,  and  the  lower  lip  protruded 
beyond  the  upper.  His  complexion  was  dark,  his 
hair  and  beard  thick,  black,  and  curled,  and 
his  expression  ever  melancholy  and  thoughtful." 
With  this  description  Bruni  substantially  agrees: 
"  He  was  a  man  of  great  refinement,  of  medium 
height,  and  a  pleasant  but  deeply  serious  face. 
[66] 


TEMPERAMENT 

He  spoke  only  seldom,  and  then  slowly,  but  was 
very  subtle  in  his  replies." 

Something  of  Dante's  life  we  learn  from  these 
same  biographers,  Bruni  and  Boccaccio,  a  little 
from  the  poet  himself  and  from  his  neighbor, 
Giovanni  Villani,  the  Florentine  chronicler.  But 
what  we  know  of  his  external  career  is  as  nothing 
compared  to  the  revelation  of  his  inner  self  in  his 
writings.  It  is  the  disclosure  of  the  author's  soul 
in  the  Vita  Nuova  and  the  Divina  Commedia  that 
makes  these  works  so  deeply  significant  and  so 
exceptional.  In  all  the  nine  centuries  between 
St.  Augustine  and  Petrarch  —  between  the  end  of 
ancient  civilization  and  the  beginning  of  the  Re- 
naissance—  we  find  in  literature  no  other  truly 
distinguished  personality  laid  bare.  Indeed,  the 
writings  of  all  time  afford  few  such  opportunities 
to  look  into  the  mind  and  heart  of  a  really  great 
man.  Dante's  work  offers,  then,  this  profound 
psychological  interest,  in  addition  to  the  comfort 
of  faith  and  the  charm  of  art. 

If  we  had  to  select  from  the  complex  of  Dante's 
nature  some  one  dominant  trait,  —  something  that 
shaped  his  life  and  showed  itself  in  all  his  mental 
and  emotional  habits,  —  we  should  probably  call 
that  characteristic,  "  intensity."  He  applied  him- 
self more  unreservedly  than  other  men  to  all  he 
did,  thought  harder,  felt  more  keenly;  and  that  is 
why,  after  all  these  years,  his  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings affect  us  so  sharply.  In  his  make-up  there 
was  no  place  for  laxness  or  lukewarmness.  We 
have  seen  how  he  regarded  those  who  were 

[67] 


THE    POWER    OF    DANTE 

neither  hot  nor  cold.  Compromise  he  never 
could  abide.  Of  his  sturdy  religious  faith  and  his 
energetic  championship  of  morality,  I  have  al- 
ready spoken.  Let  us  consider  some  of  his  other 
qualities. 

On  the  intellectual  side,  we  cannot  fail  to  note 
the  distinctness  of  his  concepts,  his  clean-cut  reason- 
ing, his  strict  logic.  But  what  impresses  us  most, 
perhaps,  is  his  curiosity.  "All  men  naturally 
desire  to  know,"  says  Aristotle;  and  with  these 
words  Dante  begins  his  great  didactic  work,  the 
Convivio,  or  Banquet.  In  a  series  of  allegorical 
love-poems  in  honor  of  Lady  Philosophy,  the  god 
of  Love  (so  the  author  tells  us)  stands  for  study, 
"the  application  of  a  mind,  enamored  of  some- 
thing, to  that  thing."  Near  the  close  of  the  Para- 
diso  we  find  the  beautiful  simile  of  the  pilgrim 
from  far  Croatia  who  comes  to  Rome  to  see  the 
handkerchief  on  which  is  imprinted  the  true  image 
of  the  Saviour,  and,  having  heard  of  it  and  thought 
of  it  for  so  many  years,  cannot  look  enough,  but 
stares  and  stares,  trying  to  satisfy  his  yearning,  as 
long  as  the  Veronica  is  exhibited.  "  La  concreata 
c  pcrpetua  sete,"  "  the  inborn  and  everlasting 
thirst,"  was  never  slaked  in  Dante  — 

The  native  thirst  which  naught  can  satisfy, 
Except  the  draught  for  whose  refreshing  gift 
The  woman  of  Samaria  did  apply. 

La  sete  natural  che  mai  non  sazia, 

Se  non  con  1'acqua  omle  la  femminetta 
Sammaritana  domando  la  grazia. 
[68] 


TEMPERAMENT 

"  My  eyes,"  he  says  elsewhere,  "  were  staring 
fixedly  to  see  new  things,  for  which  they  are 
greedy."  His  accumulation  of  book-knowledge 
and  of  observation  bears  witness  to  his  thirst  for 
learning  and  the  eagerness  of  his  eyes.  As  he  was 
one  of  the  most  inquiring  of  men,  he  was  one  of 
the  most  positive;  and  an  unanswerable  question 
was  an  affliction  that  would  have  been  wellnigh 
intolerable,  without  the  expectation  of  enlighten- 
ment after  death.  On  one  occasion  he  declares: 

No  ignorance  e'er  battled  so  with  me 

With  craving  for  a  thing  beyond  our  ken 
(Unless  I  am  deceived  by  memory), 

As  in  my  thought  I  seemed  to  suffer  then. 

Again  he  speaks  of  his  agony  of  curiosity  being 
assuaged  by  the  near  prospect  of  an  explanation. 
The  perfect  and  endless  soothing  of  that  impatient 
"  desire  to  know"  was  essential  to  the  complete- 
ness of  the  joy  of  such  a  Paradise  as  he  imagined. 
To  Dante's  ardent  study  we  have,  besides  the 
evidence  of  its  results,  the  testimony  of  Lionardo 
Bruni,  quoted  a  moment  since ;  we  have  also  that 
of  Dante  himself,  at  the  end  of  the  New  Life  and 
in  the  Banquet.  He  won  a  great  reputation  as  a 
scholar.  Villani,  his  fellowtownsman,  who  for 
political  reasons  may  have  had  a  certain  grudge 
against  him,  says,  after  describing  briefly  his  lite 
and  works:  "This  Dante,  from  his  knowledge, 
was  somewhat  presumptuous,  harsh,  and  disdain- 
ful, like  an  ungracious  philosopher;  he  scarcely 
deigned  to  converse  with  laymen.  But  for  his 
other  virtues,  science,  and  worth  as  a  citizen,  it 

[69] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

seems  but  reasonable  to  give  him  perpetual  re- 
membrance in  this  our  chronicle."  Boccaccio  tells 
us,  you  remember,  that  he  "  was  accustomed  to 
walk  somewhat  bowed,"  with  a  thoughtful  ex- 
pression. Dante  himself  says:  "As  I  followed 
Virgil,  I  carried  my  forehead  as  one  who  hath  it 
laden  with  thought  and  maketh  himself  like  unto 
half  the  arch  of  a  bridge."  So  we  may  picture 
him,  as  he  wrestled  with  the  knotty  problem  of 
imperfection  in  the  world  of  matter;  or  as  he 
meditated  on  the  influence  of  the  stars,  and  came 
to  understand  how  it  acts  as  a  corrective  to  hered- 
ity; or  as  he  argued  with  himself  the  question  of 
the  sanctity  of  vows,  which,  involving  a  covenant 
between  a  human  being  and  the  Lord,  can  never 
be  altered  by  one  party  to  the  bargain  without  the 
consent  of  the  other. 

When  reflection  caused  Dante  to  reverse  an 
earlier  judgment,  his  intellectual  honesty  prompted 
him  to  publish  his  new  opinion.  In  the  New  Life 
he  held  that  poetry  in  the  vulgar  tongue  should 
be  used  for  amatory  themes  alone,  because  this 
kind  of  verse  was  invented  to  address  ladies,  who 
cannot  read  Latin;  but  when  he  wrote  his  treatise 
On  Vernacular  Composition  (Dc  Vulgarl  Elo- 
quentia),  he  had  reached  the  conclusion  that  there 
was  good  precedent  for  rimes  on  three  subjects, 
Love,  Righteousness,  and  War,  although  for  the 
last  he  could  cite  no  example  in  Italian.  More 
than  once,  in  his  journey  through  Heaven,  he  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  his  disembodied  teachers  a  con- 
tradiction of  views  formerly  advanced  by  himself. 


TEMPERAMENT 

Beatrice  elaborately  disproves  the  theory  of  the 
moonspots  offered  by  Dante  in  his  Banquet,  and 
substitutes  an  explanation  more  in  harmony  with 
his  maturer  conception  of  the  relation  between 
matter  and  spirit.  She  it  is,  also,  who  corrects 
his  previous  error  (contained  in  the  same  work) 
concerning  the  respective  rank  of  the  nine  orders 
of  angels  —  an  error  into  which  St.  Gregory,  too, 
had  fallen,  and,  after  him,  Brunetto  Latini.  In 
the  Vernacular  Composition  Dante  had  stated 
with  some  confidence  the  hypothesis  that  the  first 
language  spoken  by  man  was  Hebrew;  but  in 
Heaven  he  learns  better,  from  no  less  an  author- 
ity than  Adam,  who  assures  him  that  his  original 
idiom  had  vanished  from  earth  before  the  build- 
ing of  the  Tower  of  Babel.  These  imaginary 
communications  are,  of  course,  in  actual  fact,  re- 
tractations on  the  author's  part.  You  wonder, 
perhaps,  why  he  changed  his  mind  with  regard  to 
Adam  and  Eve :  I  think  his  reason  is  to  be  sought 
in  a  general  principle  which  he  had  adopted,  either 
on  the  strength  of  his  own  observation  or  at  the 
suggestion  of  Horace  —  the  principle  that  spoken 
languages  are  always  varying  from  age  to  age. 
Not  only  does  Dante  correct  his  own  errors;  in 
one  canto  he  ventures  to  correct  his  great  master, 
Virgil,  putting  the  correction,  however,  into  Vir- 
gil's mouth :  having  for  some  reason  convinced 
himself  that  the  founding  of  Mantua  is  unsatis- 
factorily told  in  the  ALneid,  he  has  Virgil  relate 
to  him  circumstantially  another  story  of  the  event, 
attributing  the  origin  of  the  city  to  the  Theban 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

prophetess  Manto,  whose  soul  they  have  just  met 
in  Hell. 

Dante  was  naturally  a  sincere,  outspoken  man. 
But  certain  episodes  in  his  career  put  his  sincerity 
to  a  severe  test.  A  poetic  love  affair,  probably 
two  different  affairs,  after  the  death  of  Beatrice, 
appeared  to  him,  in  afterthought,  unbecoming  in 
a  man  who  set  himself  up  as  a  moral  teacher,  and 
he  was  anxious  to  explain  away  the  amatory  verse 
in  question,  by  calling  it  allegorical.  This  desire 
was  one  of  his  motives  in  writing  the  Banquet, 
which  is  in  the  form  of  a  commentary  on  some  of 
his  canzoni.  The  Banquet  was  never  completed; 
and  in  the  Divine  Comedy  the  poet  sternly  chas- 
tises himself  for  his  aberration.  Beatrice  it  is 
who  administers  the  rebuke,  after  the  sudden  de- 
parture of  Virgil:  standing  in  a  chariot  in  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  "  '  Dante,'  "  she  says,  "  '  though 
Virgil  leave  thee,  weep  not,  weep  not  yet,  for  thou 
must  weep  for  a  worse  wound.'  Like  an  admiral, 
who  comes  to  stem  and  stern  to  see  the  crews 
serving  in  the  other  boats,  and  heartens  them  to 
do  their  best,  thus,  when  I  turned  at  the  sound  of 
my  name,  which  of  necessity  is  registered  here, 
I  beheld,  on  the  left  side  of  the  chariot,  that  lady 
who  had  erst  appeared  to  me  under  a  cloud  of 
flowers  cast  by  angels'  hands;  and  she  was  gazing 
at  me  across  the  stream.  Although  the  veil  that 
descended  from  her  olive-crowned  head  did  not 
permit  me  to  see  her  clearly,  she  continued  in  regal 
fashion,  with  a  mien  still  severe,  as  one  who 
speaks  but  holds  in  reserve  her  most  stinging 

[72] 


TEMPERAMENT 

words :  '  Look  at  us  well !  We  are  indeed,  indeed, 
Beatrice!  Hast  thou  then  condescended  to  come 
to  the  mountain?  Didst  thou  not  know  that  this 
is  the  place  where  man  is  happy?'  My  eyes  were 
lowered  to  the  clear  water;  but,  when  I  saw  myself 
therein,  I  withdrew  them  to  the  grassy  bank,  such 
shame  weighed  down  my  brow!  Thus  doth  the 
mother  seem  haughty  to  the  child,  as  she  appeared 
to  me;  for  bitter  is  the  taste  of  pity  that  is  still 
unripe."  Dante's  name  is  "  of  necessity  registered 
here "  to  mark  his  confession  as  his  very  own. 
The  mountain  of  which  Beatrice  speaks  is  the 
mountain  of  discipline.  At  her  harsh  words,  the 
angels  show  pity  for  the  culprit;  and  with  that  his 
heart  melts:  "The  ice  that  had  collected  about 
my  heart  turned  to  breath  and  water,  and  with 
agony  issued  from  my  breast  through  lips  and 
eyes."  To  the  angels  Beatrice  explains  that  by 
nature  and  by  special  grace  "  '  this  man,  in  his  new 
life,  was  potentially  such  that  every  happy  talent 
would  have  reached  marvelous  fulfilment  in  him. 
But  the  more  good  earthy  vigor  a  piece  of  land 
has,  the  wilder  and  worse  it  grows,  if  ill  planted 
or  uncultivated.  For  some  time  I  sustained  him 
with  the  sight  of  my  face.  Showing  to  him  my 
youthful  eyes,  I  led  him  toward  the  right  quarter. 
As  soon  as  I  reached  the  threshold  of  the  second 
age  of  man,  and  passed  from  mortal  to  eternal 
life,  he  took  himself  from  me  and  gave  himself  to 
another.  When  I  had  risen  from  flesh  to  spirit, 
and  my  beauty  and  virtue  had  increased,  I  was  less 
dear  and  less  welcome  to  him;  and  he  turned  his 

[73] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

steps  over  a  road  untrue,  following  false  like- 
nesses of  good,  which  carry  out  no  promise  to  the 
end."  Then  she  turns  to  Dante  himself:  "  'In 
order  the  more  to  shame  thee  for  thine  error,  and 
to  make  thee  stronger,  shouldst  thou  hear  the 
sirens  again  .  .  .,  thou  shalt  hear  how  the  burial 
of  my  body  ought  to  have  moved  thee  in  the  op- 
posite way.  Never  did  nature  or  art  present  to  thee 
a  charm  equal  to  that  fair  form  (now  scattered  in 
earth)  within  which  I  was  enclosed.  And  if  this 
greatest  of  charms  so  forsook  thee  at  my  death, 
what  mortal  thing  should  thereafter  have  led  thee 
to  desire  it?  Verily,  at  the  first  arrow  of  disap- 
pointment over  elusive  things,  thou  shouldst  have 
flown  up  after  me,  who  was  no  longer  of  them. 
Thou  shouldst  not  have  allowed  thy  wings  to  be 
weighed  down,  to  get  more  wounds,  either  by  a 
little  maid  or  by  any  other  so  short-lived  vanity. 
The  newborn  birdlet  waits  for  two  or  three  shots, 
but,  surely,  in  vain  the  net  is  spread,  and  in  vain 
the  shaft  is  shot,  in  the  sight  of  any  full-fledged 
bird.'  '  Presently  Dante,  having  drunk  of  the 
water  of  Lethe,  which  effaces  the  memory  of  sin, 
and  of  sin  only,  asks  Beatrice:  "  '  Why  does  your 
cherished  word  fly  so  far  above  my  sight  that  the 
more  I  strive,  the  more  I  lose  it?  '  'In  order,'  she 
said,  '  that  thou  recognize  the  kind  of  doctrine 
thou  hast  followed,  and  see,  too,  that  the  human 
way  is  as  far  from  the  divine  as  earth  is  distant 
from  the  highest  whirling  heaven.'  And  I  replied 
to  her:  '  I  do  not  recall  that  ever  I  strayed  from 
you,  nor  have  I  any  sting  of  conscience  therefor.' 

[74] 


'  If  thou  canst  not  remember  it,'  she  answered, 
smiling,  '  now  bethink  thyself  how  thou  hast  just 
drunk  of  Lethe;  and  if  fire  is  argued  from  smoke, 
this  forgetfulness  clearly  proves  that  there  was 
guilt  in  the  turning  of  thy  desires  elsewhere.' ' 

Thus  does  Dante  humiliate  himself  and  confess 
the  temporary  faithlessness  which  he  had  tried  to 
conceal.  To  be  sure,  his  avowal,  though  contrite 
enough,  is  not  so  explicit  as  one  could  wish,  and 
still  leaves  room  for  uncertainty  as  to  his  meaning. 
It  is  doubtless  as  clear  as  he  could  bear  to  make  it ; 
to  pronounce  it  at  all,  after  his  protests  in  the 
Banquet,  must  have  cruelly  tortured  his  pride. 
For  Dante  was  very  proud.  I  have  quoted  to 
you  Villani's  statement  that  his  learning  had  made 
him  somewhat  scornful  and  that  "  he  scarcely 
deigned  to  converse  with  laymen."  The  poet 
himself  recognized  his  failing.  We  have  already 
noted  that,  as  he  marches  along,  in  the  lowest 
circle  of  Purgatory,  talking  with  the  souls  which, 
by  way  of  penance  for  pride,  are  carrying  heavy 
weights  on  their  backs,  he  stoops  as  they  do.  *'  I 
was  walking,"  he  says,  "  all  bent  with  them;  "  and 
"  side  by  side,  like  oxen  under  the  yoke,  I  trudged 
beside  that  laden  soul."  That  is,  he  shares  in 
their  punishment.  When  conversing  with  the 
envious,  who  have  their  eyes  sewed  up,  in  the 
terrace  above,  he  tells  what  he  expects  to  suffer 
when  he  shall  come  to  do  real  penance  in  Pur- 
gatory after  death:  "  '  My  eyes,'  said  I,  '  shall  yet 
be  taken  from  me  here,  but  only  for  a  little  while; 
for  little  have  they  offended  by  turning  in  envy 

[75] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Far  greater  is  the  fear  that  grips  my  soul,  of  the 
torment  below;  already  weighs  upon  me  the 
burden  that  is  carried  down  there.' '  Dante  seems 
to  have  regarded  this  sin  as  a  family  trait,  since 
he  represents  his  great-grandfather  as  having 
done  penance  for  it,  in  Purgatory,  for  over  a 
hundred  years.  The  poet  believed  himself  to  be 
descended  from  a  Roman  family  anciently  settled 
in  Florence.  The  earliest  ancestor  he  knew,  his 
great-great-grandfather,  Cacciaguida,  had  been  a 
crusader  and  had  been  knighted  by  the  Emperor. 
The  thought  of  this  noble  forbear  must  have  been 
a  comfort  to  him  in  the  days  of  exile  and  poverty. 
For  he  was  by  nature  an  aristocrat,  contemptuous 
of  the  ignoble  crowd.  When  Cacciaguida's  soul 
appears  to  him  in  Heaven,  he  addresses  it  with 
the  respectful  pronoun  voi  instead  of  the  familiar 
///;  and  Beatrice,  observing  the  harmless  fatuity  of 
her  disciple,  smiles  indulgently.  Here  is  the  poet's 
comment: 

0  petty  human  eminence  of  birth ! 

If  thou  dost  gratify  poor  mortals'  pride 
Where  human  love  is  feeble,  down  on  earth, 

1  ne'er  shall  marvel  more,  at  any  tide ; 

For  in  that  place  where  hunger  cannot  stray, 
I  mean  in  Heaven,  I  was  gratified. 
Thou  art  a  cloak  that  quickly  shrinks  away, 
And  Time  goes  clipping  round  it  with  his  shears, 
Unless  it  be  patcht  out  from  day  to  day. 

[From  Dante,  p.  35.] 

'  The  magnanimous  man,"  says  Dante  in  the 
Banquet,  "  always  magnifies  himself  in  his  heart; 


TEMPERAMENT 

and  the  pusillanimous  man,  on  the  contrary,  al- 
ways thinks  himself  less  than  he  is.  ...  And 
inasmuch  as  a  man  measureth  his  possessions, 
which  are  so  to  speak  a  part  of  him,  with  the 
measure  by  which  he  measureth  himself,  it  follows 
that  to  the  magnanimous  man  his  own  possessions 
seem  better  than  they  are  and  those  of  others  less 
good;  while  the  pusillanimous  man  always  be- 
lieveth  that  his  own  things  are  worth  little,  and 
other  people's,  much."  In  believing  that  his  own 
mental  gifts  were  better  than  other  men's,  Dante 
was  amply  justified.  It  is  inconceivable  that  such 
a  genius  should  have  been  unaware  of  his  supe- 
riority. We  have  seen  how  he  expected — al- 
though he  refrains  from  saying  so  outright — to 
"  drive  the  one  and  the  other  Guido  from  the 
nest."  After  all,  his  own  rating  of  himself  was 
modest  enough,  compared  with  the  judgment  of 
posterity.  Who  nowadays  would  ever  have  heard 
of  Guido  Guinizelli  or  Guido  Cavalcanti,  charm- 
ing rimesters  though  they  were,  had  it  not  been 
for  Dante's  mention  of  them?  Immortal  reputa- 
tion Dante  craved  and  confidently  expected.  Of 
the  Provencal  poet  Folquet  de  Marselha,  encoun- 
tered in  Heaven,  he  makes  another  blessed  spirit 
speak  thus : 

This  bright  and  precious  jewel  of  our  sky, 
Which  gleameth  here  beside  me,  left  behind 
Enduring  fame,  so  great  that  ere  it  die 

This  present  year  shall  five  centennials  find. 
Strive  to  excel !     For  so  thy  mortal  life 
A  second  life  shall  leave  to  humankind. 

[77] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Dante  himself,  debating  whether  he  shall  incur 
the  enmity  of  the  mighty  by  telling  the  truth  in  his 
poem,  declares: 

If  timidly  I  love  the  truth,  I  fear 

I  may  not  live  among  the  men  for  whom 
Antiquity  shall  be  the  present  year. 

To  him  Cacciaguida  replies,  urging  him  to  be 
frank,  regardless  of  the  consequences  : 

No  envy  on  thy  neighbors  need  be  spent ; 
Because  thy  life  shall  flourish,  stretching  on 
Far,  far  beyond  their  treason's  punishment. 

The  natural  endowments  of  our  poet,  as  de- 
scribed by  Beatrice,  I  have  read  to  you.  His 
native  constellation  of  Gemini,  bestower  of  the 
gift  of  literary  art,  Dante  apostrophizes  thus : 

O  glorious  stars,  O  light  that  ever  teems 

With  wondrous  power,  to  which  alone  I  owe 
My  genius  (or  the  thing  that  genius  seems), 

The  sun,  begetter  of  the  life  below, 
Did  daily  set  with  you  and  daily  rise 
When  first  I  felt  the  Tuscan  breezes  blow. 

When  Virgil  returns  to  the  Limbus,  bringing  with 
him  Dante,  whom  he  is  to  conduct  through  Hell 
and  Purgatory,  a  little  company  of  his  fellow- 
ghosts  comes  to  meet  him. 

A  sudden  voice  I  heard  exclaiming  then : 
"  Honor  the  noble  poet,  now  be  glad! 
His  shade,  which  left  us,  cometh  back  again." 

When  silent  was  the  voice  that  welcome  bade, 
I  four  majestic  souls  advancing  see, 
Whose  faces  neither  joyous  were  nor  sad. 

[73"] 


And  thus  my  kindly  master  spake  to  me: 

"  Look  well  on  him  who  cometh  sword  in  hand, 
And  kinglike  walks  before  the  other  three  ; 

Homer  is  this,  who  poets  doth  command. 
Horace  the  satirist  is  second  there. 
The  third  is  Ovid.     Lucan  ends  the  band. 

Since  every  one  of  these  with  me  doth  share 
The  title  which  the  single  voice  did  call, 
They  do  me  honor,  as  is  right  and  fair." 

Thus  I  beheld  united,  grand  and  tall, 
Those  princes  of  the  most  exalted  song 
Which  like  an  eagle  flieth  over  all. 

Before  their  greetings  had  extended  long, 
They  turned  to  me  with  hospitable  sign ; 
And  Virgil  smiled,  assured  they  did  no  wrong. 

But,  thanks  to  them,  more  glory  still  was  mine ; 
For  they  received  me  in  their  company, 
And  I  was  sixth  in  that  enlightened  line. 

This,  then,  was  the  place  that  Dante  assigned 
himself  in  the  hierarchy  of  poets:  he  was  sixth, 
following  Virgil,  Homer,  Horace,  Ovid,  and 
Lucan;  perhaps  ahead  of  Statius,  the  only  other 
ancient  poet  whom  he  knew.  Few  critics  there  be, 
in  our  time,  who  would  not  put  Dante  at  the  top 
of  the  list. 

That  he  was  guilty  of  pride,  Dante  plainly  tells 
us;  and  he  seems  to  suggest  that  he  was  also  some- 
what prone  to  anger  and  strife,  although  he 
strongly  reprobated  this  tendency.  At  any  rate, 
in  Purgatory,  he  is  blinded  and  stung  by  the  thick, 
biting  smoke  which  is  the  punishment  of  the  wrath- 
ful; and  in  Hell,  not  only  does  he  gloat  over  a 
vulgar  quarrel,  until  he  draws  a  sharp  rebuke  from 
Virgil,  but  he  likewise  contemplates  with  a  sort  of 
drunken  fascination  the  souls  of  mischief-makers. 

[79] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

These  are  frightfully  mangled  by  a  demon  with  a 
sword.  Among  them  the  most  notable  figure  is 
that  of  Bertran  de  Born,  the  Provengal  warrior- 
poet,  who  made  his  profit  out  of  the  discord  be- 
tween Henry  the  Second  of  England  and  young 
Henry,  his  eldest  son,  known  as  the  Young  Eng- 
lish King.  "  I  lingered  to  stare  at  the  crowd,  and 
saw  something  which,  without  further  proof,  I 
should  be  afraid  to  tell  unaccompanied,  were  it 
not  that  conscience  reassures  me,  that  good  com- 
panion which  emboldens  a  man  under  the  hauberk 
of  conscious  honesty.  I  surely  saw,  and  seem  to 
see  again,  a  bust  walking  headless,  just  as  walked 
the  others  of  the  sorry  flock.  And  its  severed 
head  it  held  by  the  locks,  dangling  from  its  hand, 
like  a  lantern.  He  was  looking  at  us  and  saying: 
'  Ah  me! '  Of  himself  he  made  a  lamp  for  him- 
self; and  they  were  two  in  one  and  one  in  two. 
How  this  can  be,  He  knoweth  who  so  decrees  it. 
When  he  was  just  at  the  foot  of  the  bridge  [on 
which  we  stood],  he  lifted  up  his  arm,  head  and 
all,  to  bring  nearer  to  us  his  words,  which  were : 
'  Now  dost  thou  behold  the  cruel  punishment,  thou 
who,  still  breathing,  goest  visiting  the  dead!  See 
whether  any  is  as  great  as  this !  ' 

Neither  love  of  strife  nor  guilty  anger  must  be 
confounded  with  righteous  indignation,  which  the 
sight  of  sin  should  and  does  inspire  in  the  godly. 
The  good  and  the  bad  kind  of  wrath  are  con- 
trasted in  the  fifth  circle  of  Dante's  Hell,  where 
sinners  are  fighting  in  the  Stygian  pool.  ''  I,  who 
was  absorbed  in  gazing,  saw  muddy  people  in  that 
[80] 


TEMPERAMENT 

bog,  all  naked  and  with  a  damaged  look.  They 
were  smiting  one  another,  not  only  with  hands, 
but  with  heads,  chests,  and  feet,  and  rending  bit 
by  bit  with  their  teeth."  As  Dante  and  Virgil  are 
crossing  the  swamp  in  Phlegias's  little  boat,  a 
dramatic  incident  occurs.  "  While  we  were  speed- 
ing over  the  dead  millpond,  someone  leaped  up 
before  me  full  of  mud,  saying:  'Who  art  thou, 
that  comest  before  thy  time  ?  '  And  I  to  him  :  '  If 
I  come,  I  stay  not.  But  who  art  thou  who  art 
grown  so  ugly?'  He  replied:  'Thou  seest,  I  am 
one  who  weep.'  And  I:  'Thy  weeping  and  thy 
mourning,  accursed  spirit,  now  keep  to  thyself,  for 
I  know  thee,  filthy  as  thou  art.'  Then  he  stretched 
out  both  hands  toward  the  craft.  But  my  ready 
master  pushed  him  away,  and  cried:  'Off,  off, 
with  the  other  dogs ! '  Then  Virgil  clasped  my 
neck  with  his  arms,  kissed  my  face,  and  said: 
'  Indignant  soul,  blessed  be  she  who  bore  thee ! 
This  creature  was  in  the  world  a  man  of  arro- 
gance. There  is  no  goodness  to  adorn  his  mem- 
ory; and  therefore  is  his  shade  so  frenzied  here. 
How  many  up  yonder  now  think  themselves  great 
kings,  who  shall  dwell  here  like  pigs  in  dung,  leav- 
ing horrible  scorn  behind!'  'Master,'  said  I, 
'  greatly  should  I  enjoy  seeing  him  ducked  in  this 
mess,  ere  we  leave  the  lake.'  '  Before  the  shore 
be  seen,'  he  answered,  '  thou  shalt  be  satisfied. 
It  is  right  for  thee  to  have  enjoyment  of  such  a 
desire  as  that.'  A  little  later  I  saw  the  soul  so 
torn  by  the  muddy  mob  that  I  still  praise  and 
thank  God  for  it.  '  At  Filippo  Argenti !  '  they  all 

[Si] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

shouted;  and  the  frantic  Florentine  ghost  turned 
its  own  teeth  upon  itself." 

Burning  indignation  against  sin,  even  violent 
hatred  of  the  sinner,  is  a  frequently  recurrent  note 
in  Dante's  Hell,  and  is  by  no  means  absent  from 
his  Purgatory  and  his  Paradise.  Amidst  the  peace 
and  perfect  joy  of  Heaven,  St.  Peter  breaks  out 
into  angry  invective  against  his  unworthy  suc- 
cessor on  the  papal  throne:  "He  who  on  earth 
usurps  my  place, — my  place,  my  place,  which  is 
vacant  in  the  sight  of  the  Son  of  God,  —  hath 
made  of  my  burial-ground  a  sewer  full  of  stench 
and  blood;  whereat  the  Evil  One,  who  fell  from 
here,  is  satisfied  down  below."  So,  among  the 
penitents  on  the  mountain,  the  wicked  House  of 
France  is  denounced  by  its  founder,  Hugh  Capet: 
"  I  was  the  root  of  that  direful  plant  which  so 
overshadows  all  the  Christian  earth  that  righteous 
fruit  is  very  seldom  plucked.  .  .  .  Before  the 
great  dowry  of  Provence  robbed  my  race  of 
shame,  it  was  of  little  worth,  but  still  it  did  no 
harm.  Then,  with  violence  and  falsehood,  it 
began  its  ravening  course.  Next,  to  make  amends, 
it  stole  Ponthieu  and  Normandy  and  Gascony. 
Charles  came  into  Italy,  and,  to  make  amends, 
sacrificed  Conradin,  and  shoved  St.  Thomas  back 
into  Heaven,  to  make  amends.  .  .  .  O  my  Lord, 
when  shall  I  be  gladdened  by  the  sight  of  the 
vengeance,  which  [still]  concealed,  sweetens  thy 
wrath  in  thy  secret  [heart]?" 

Dante's  own  wrath  was  no  doubt  eased,  if  not 
sweetened,  by  the  thought  of  the  just  punishment 
[82] 


TEMPERAMENT 

that  awaited  the  enemies  of  God  and  man.  Down 
at  the  very  bottom  of  the  pit,  in  a  sheet  of  ice,  the 
cold-blooded  traitors  freeze  forever.  "  I  saw  be- 
fore me  and  under  my  feet  a  lake  which  the  cold 
made  to  look  like  glass  instead  of  water.  Never 
did  the  Danube  in  Austria  in  wintertime,  nor  the 
Don  under  its  chilly  sky,  draw  such  a  thick  veil 
over  its  current  as  there  was  here;  for  if  [the 
mountain  of]  Tambernich  had  fallen  on  it,  or 
Pietrapana,  it  would  not  have  cracked  even  at  the 
edge.  And  as  the  frog  sits  croaking  with  its  nose 
out  of  the  water,  at  the  time  of  year  when  peasant 
women  are  apt  to  dream  of  gleaning,  so  were  the 
doleful  souls  in  the  ice,  livid  as  far  as  the  place 
where  blushes  come,  setting  their  teeth  to  the  tune 
of  the  stork.  Every  one  held  its  face  downward. 
Their  [chattering]  mouths  bore  witness  to  the 
frost;  their  eyes,  to  their  sad  hearts.  When  I 
had  gazed  about  a  little,  I  looked  at  my  feet,  and 
saw  two  [spirits]  so  close  together  that  the  hair 
of  their  two  heads  was  mixed.  '  Tell  me,'  said  I, 
1  ye  who  so  squeeze  your  breasts,  who  are  ye?' 
They  bent  their  necks;  and  when  they  had  lifted 
their  faces  toward  me,  their  eyes,  which  up  to 
then  had  been  wet  only  within,  gushed  up  over  the 
lids,  and  the  cold  congealed  the  tears  inside  them 
and  locked  them  up  again.  Never  did  clamp 
fasten  wood  to  wood  so  hard.  Whereupon  they, 
like  two  bucks,  butted  at  each  other,  such  rage 
came  over  them.  And  one,  who  had  lost  both  his 
ears  from  free/ing,  said,  without  raising  his  face: 
'  Why  dost  thou  stare  so  at  us  ?  '  The  vileness 

[83] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

of  these  souls  makes  Dante  hard-hearted  against 
them,  callous  and  spiteful.  "  While  we  were  walk- 
ing toward  the  centre  which  attracts  all  weights, 
—  I  know  not  whether  it  was  intent  or  fate  or 
chance,  —  but,  as  I  stepped  among  the  heads,  I 
kicked  the  face  of  one  of  them  hard  with  my  foot." 
Enough  of  hate:  let  us  turn  to  the  opposite 
passion.  Love  is  the  source  of  all  good  and  all 
evil;  it  is  the  motive  power  of  the  universe.  In 
the  most  literal  sense  of  the  word,  it  makes  the 
world  go  round,  for  it  is  love  that  causes  the 
heavens  to  revolve.  The  noblest  of  emotions,  the 
one  which,  at  its  best,  lifts  us  up  to  God,  may  be 
utterly  perverted,  or  it  may  be  inordinately  be- 
stowed on  an  unworthy  object.  Perverted  love, 
love  of  injury,  is  malice,  the  fruit  of  pride,  envy, 
or  anger.  Inordinate  love  of  food  is  gluttony;  of 
wealth,  avarice.  Excessive  love  between  men  and 
women  is  amorousness.  Of  this  fault  Dante 
seems  to  confess  himself  guilty,  not  only  in  sundry 
lyrics  and  in  various  episodes  of  the  New  Life, — 
as  well  as  in  the  passage  I  have  quoted  from  the 
Purgatorlo  (the  lines  containing  the  rebukes  of 
Beatrice), — but  also  in  another  thrilling  scene 
in  this  latter  book.  To  the  poet's  earliest  amatory 
verse,  addressed  to  various  young  ladies,  I  should 
not  attach  much  importance :  it  may  express  noth- 
ing more  serious  than  transient  youthful  fancies 
or  sentimental  reveries.  Some  intensely  passionate 
poems  apparently  belonging  to  his  mature  years 
are  very  mysterious,  and  possibly  (though  not 
probably)  written  with  an  allegorical  intention. 

[84] 


TEMPERAMENT 

Beatrice's  reproof,  as  we  have  seen,  is  a  bit  am- 
biguous. Clearer  evidence  of  experience  in  for- 
bidden love  is  Dante's  treatment  of  Francesca 
da  Rimini,  whose  culpable  passion  is  handled 
with  such  sweet  and  delicate  sympathy,  and  with 
such  perfect  insight,  that  the  author  cannot  es- 
cape suspicion  of  knowing  more  than  one  should 
know.  But  in  the  scene  of  the  Purgatory  of 
which  I  spoke,  there  appears  to  be  a  distinct 
avowal. 

On  the  uppermost  terrace  of  the  mountain, 
which  Dante  is  traversing  with  Virgil  and  Statius, 
the  souls  of  the  amorous  are  cleansing  themselves 
by  marching  through  fire,  which  bursts  out  from 
the  cliff  all  around  the  peak.  Among  them  are  the 
love-poets  whom  the  author  most  esteemed,  Guido 
Guinizelli  and  Arnaut  Daniel.  To  leave  this 
shelf,  where  Dante  has  been  walking  on  the  outer 
edge  in  order  to  avoid  being  scorched,  he  must 
penetrate  the  wall  of  flame  —  that  is,  he  must  sub- 
mit to  the  burning,  and  clean  his  soul,  even  as  the 
penitential  ghosts  are  attaining  cleanness.  And 
now  we  encounter  a  trait  that  we  have  not  previ- 
ously met  in  Dante :  rebellion  against  the  purifying 
discipline,  reluctance  to  abandon  his  vice.  In  the 
circle  of  pride,  he  spontaneously  joined  in  the 
penance;  but  here,  far  from  diving  voluntarily 
into  the  fire,  he  stubbornly  resists  the  exhortations 
of  Virgil,  who  represents  Reason.  '  The  day  was 
departing  when  God's  glad  angel  appeared  to  us. 
Outside  the  flame  it  was  standing,  on  the  brink, 
singing  '  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart '  with  a 

[85] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

voice  far  more  alive  than  ours.  When  we  had 
come  near,  it  spake :  '  Ye  may  go  no  further, 
blessed  souls,  until  ye  suffer  the  bite  of  the  flame. 
Enter  into  it;  and  be  not  deaf  to  the  song  on  the 
other  side.'  At  these  words,  I  felt  like  one  who 
is  put  into  the  grave  [to  be  buried  alive].  Strain- 
ing forward  over  my  clasped  hands,  I  stared  into 
the  fire,  distinctly  picturing  human  bodies  that  I 
had  formerly  seen  burnt.  My  kindly  escorts 
turned  towards  me,  and  Virgil  said :  '  My  son, 
here  may  be  torment,  but  not  death.  Remember, 
remember!  If  I  guided  thee  in  safety  even  on 
[the  back  of  the  monster]  Geryon,  what  mayst 
thou  not  expect  of  me  now,  nearer  to  God?  Be- 
lieve for  certain  that,  though  thou  shouldst  abide 
a  thousand  years  and  more  in  the  heart  of  this 
flame,  it  could  not  strip  thy  head  of  one  hair.  And 
if  thou  thinkest  perhaps  that  I  am  deceiving  thee, 
approach  it,  and  with  thine  own  hands  convince 
thyself,  with  the  hem  of  thy  garment.  Now  put 
aside,  Oh!  put  aside  all  fear!  Turn  hither,  and 
step  fearlessly  ahead!  '  But  I  [stood]  stubborn, 
disobedient  to  conscience.  When  he  saw  me  stand- 
ing hard  and  obstinate,  he  cried,  a  little  troubled: 
'  Now  see,  my  son,  this  wall  is  between  thee  and 
Beatrice ! '  As  Pyramus,  at  the  point  of  death, 
opened  his  eyes  on  hearing  Thisbe's  name,  and 
looked  at  her,  —  on  the  day  when  the  mulberry 
turned  red,  — thus,  with  my  hardness  all  softened, 
I  turned  to  my  wise  leader,  hearing  that  name 
which  is  ever  green  in  my  memory.  Whereupon 
he  shook  his  brow,  saying:  '  How  now!  shall  we 
[86] 


TEMPERAMENT 

linger  here? '  as  one  does  to  a  child  won  over  by 
an  apple.  Then  he  plunged  into  the  fire  ahead  of 
me,  begging  Statius  to  bring  up  the  rear.  .  .  . 
When  I  was  within,  I  could  have  thrown  myself 
into  molten  glass  to  cool  me,  so  boundless  was  the 
heat.  My  dear  father,  to  encourage  me,  con- 
tinually spake  of  Beatrice  alone,  as  he  advanced, 
saying : '  Already  I  think  I  see  her  eyes.'  We  were 
guided  by  a  voice  that  was  singing  on  the  other 
side;  and,  fixing  all  our  attention  on  it,  we  came 
forth  to  the  upward  way." 

In  this  incident  we  may  see,  I  think,  allegorically 
related,  the  rescue  of  Dante  from  an  unworthy 
passion  by  the  memory  of  his  pure  affection  for 
Beatrice.  What  was  this  guilty  love?  Perhaps 
his  entanglement  with  the  girl  at  the  window;  per- 
haps his  mad  infatuation  with  the  woman  he  calls 
Pietra,  for  whom  he  wrote  those  wildly  beautiful 
amatory  poems  of  which  I  spoke.  To  two  ladies, 
it  would  seem,  his  heart  was  temporarily  given, 
after  the  death  of  the  most  gentle  one.  One  is 
this  mysterious  Pietra.  The  other  is  a  young  girl 
whom  we  may  perhaps  name  Lisetta :  the  lady 
who,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  New  Life,  so  moved 
the  poet  by  looking  at  him  compassionately  from  a 
window  —  the  same  one  whom  he  afterwards 
made  a  symbol  of  Philosophy.  Some  critics  be- 
lieve that  these  ladies  are  one;  others  think  that 
there  is  yet  a  third,  the  woman  of  the  Casentino, 
celebrated  in  Dante's  "mountain  song";  others 
still  would  add  a  fourth,  a  certain  Gentucca,  but 
there  is  really  no  reason  whatever  for  thinking 

[87] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

that  she  was  an  object  of  Dante's  affection.  Let 
us  assume  that  there  are  but  two,  the  sympathetic 
Lisetta  and  the  stony  Pietra.  From  his  undue 
interest  in  the  former  he  was  saved,  according  to 
the  account  in  the  New  Life,  as  follows  :  "  Against 
this  adversary  of  reason  there  arose  one  day,  al- 
most at  the  ninth  hour,  a  powerful  fancy  within 
me;  for  I  thought  I  saw  this  glorious  Beatrice 
with  those  vermilion  garments  in  which  she  had 
first  appeared  to  my  eyes,  and  she  seemed  to  me 
a  child  of  like  age  to  that  in  which  I  first  beheld 
her.  Then  I  began  to  think  of  her;  and,  as  I 
meditated  on  her,  following  the  order  of  past 
events,  my  heart  began  painfully  to  repent  of  the 
desire  by  which  it  had  weakly  allowed  itself  to  be 
possessed  for  some  days,  contrary  to  the  stead- 
fastness of  reason;  and,  casting  out  this  evil  desire, 
all  my  thoughts  turned  back  to  their  most  gentle 
Beatrice." 

Now,  the  episode  of  the  barrier  of  fire  and  the 
magic  effect  of  the  name  of  Beatrice  would  seem 
to  be  a  symbolical  presentation  either  of  this  same 
experience  with  the  so-called  Lisetta  or  of  another 
passage  of  similar  kind,  perhaps  with  the  danger- 
ous Pietra.  That  Dante  regarded  Beatrice  as  in 
very  sooth  his  saviour  there  can  be  no  doubt.  At 
first,  perhaps,  —  in  Dante's  adolescent  stage,  of 
which  we  catch  faint  glimpses  through  the  mist 
of  idealization  which  veils  the  New  Life,  —  he 
looked  upon  her  with  eyes  of  youthful  admiration 
and  longing,  though  from  a  respectful  distance; 
but  ere  the  narrative  is  half  over,  we  find  the  poet 
[88] 


TEMPERAMENT 

banishing  from  his  devotion  to  her  every  element 
of  desire  and  confining  his  song  to  the  note  of 
praise.  This  platonic,  spiritual  service  developed 
into  a  veritable  cult,  which  after  the  lady's  death 
was  only  intensified,  and  always  remained  as  an 
uplifting  influence,  comparable  to  that  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin.  Beatrice  it  was  who,  watching 
over  him  from  Heaven,  saved  him  again  and  again 
from  his  lower  self;  and  it  is  not  strange  that  his 
feeling  toward  her  should  have  come  to  be  one  of 
overwhelming  gratitude,  and  that  he  should  in 
his  allegorical  thought  have  made  her  the  symbol 
of  divine  guidance. 

Of  all  Dante's  emotions,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  gratitude  was  the  strongest.  Grateful  he  was, 
first  of  all,  to  God — to  the  Creator  who  made  this 
wonderful  universe  and  so  lovingly  watches  over 
it  —  to  the  Redeemer  who,  in  preference  to  any 
other  method  of  restoring  lost  humankind,  chose 
to  make  reparation  by  sacrificing  himself.  God's 
grace  it  is  that  floods  the  heavens  with  light  and 
happiness  and  beauty.  Of  Satan's  ugliness  the 
outstanding  cause  is  ungratefulness  to  his  Maker. 
Among  all  the  human  sinners  in  Hell,  the  three 
worst — Judas,  Brutus,  and  Cassius  —  are  guilty 
primarily  of  ingratitude.  It  was  Dante's  thankful- 
ness to  God  that  made  him  so  unsparingly  vehe- 
ment in  his  denunciation  of  the  wicked.  Grati- 
tude to  his  earthly  teachers,  living  or  dead,  finds 
eloquent  expression  in  his  verse :  to  Virgil,  his 
great  master,  whom  he  chooses  as  his  director  and 
companion  for  the  journey  through  Hell  and  Pur- 

[89] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

gatory;  to  Brunette  Latini,  his  sage  counselor,  to 
whom  he  pays  such  touching  tribute;  to  the  ancient 
author  of  his  Latin  grammar,  Donatus,  whom  he 
places  in  Heaven  among  the  great  lights  of  re- 
ligion; to  the  literary  models  whom  he  followed, 
Arnaut  Daniel  and  Guido  Guinizelli.  Passage 
after  passage  of  the  Divine  Comedy  testifies 
courteously,  discreetly,  but  with  transparent  sin- 
cerity, to  his  thankfulness  toward  those  who  had 
befriended  him  during  his  exile. 

Courtesy,  good  breeding  marked  his  dealings 
with  his  fellowmen.  "  His  manners,"  says  Boc- 
caccio, "whether  in  public  or  at  home,  were  won- 
derfully composed  and  restrained,  and  in  all  his 
ways  he  was  more  polite  and  civil  than  anyone 
else."  Nothing  could  be  more  delicate  than 
Dante's  compliments  to  benefactors,  unless  it  were 
his  words  of  comfort  to  suffering  penitents.  We 
have  observed  how  loath  he  is,  in  Purgatory,  to 
walk,  staring  and  silent,  past  a  row  of  repentant 
spirits  who,  temporarily  blinded,  cannot  look  at 
him.  A  very  pattern  of  refinement,  with  a  tincture 
of  sedate  playfulness,  is  the  colloquy  between  Vir- 
gil, Statius,  and,  as  an  unwilling  participant,  the 
poet  himself.  In  his  relations  with  his  friends 
we  note  the  same  sweet  delicacy.  He  does  not  in 
any  of  his  works  say  much  about  friendship;  the 
theme  was  perhaps  too  intimate  to  come  within 
the  bounds  prescribed  by  his  code  of  behavior. 
Yet  in  his  occasional  mention  of  Guido  Cavalcanti, 
his  "  first  friend,"  of  that  unnamed  relative  of 
Beatrice  who  was  next  in  the  order  of  friendship, 

[90] 


TEMPERAMENT 

of  Cino  da  Pistoia,  his  fellow-poet,  —  in  his  meet- 
ing with  Guide's  father  in  Hell,  with  the  musician 
Casella  on  the  shore  of  the  mountain,  with  Forese 
Donati  in  Purgatory  itself,  with  Charles  Martel 
in  Heaven, — we  have  evidence  of  that  consid- 
erate tenderness  which  makes  friendship  beautiful. 
This  same  tender,  deferential  feeling  exists  be- 
tween two  of  Dante's  shades,  who  have  just  met 
for  the  first  time,  but  have  long  loved  each  other 
from  afar.  Virgil,  who  has  come  from  the  Lim- 
bus,  to  be  the  poet's  guide,  meets  Statins  in  Pur- 
gatory, in  the  circle  from  which  the  latter  has  just 
been  released  —  the  circle  which  contains  both  the 
avaricious  and  the  prodigal.  '  Love,'  began 
Virgil,  '  love,  kindled  by  virtue,  hath  always  kin- 
dled love  in  return,  whenever  its  flame  could  show 
itself.  And  that  is  why,  ever  since  Juvenal  came 
down  among  us,  in  the  Limbus  of  Hell,  and  told 
me  of  thy  affection  for  me,  my  liking  for  thee 
hath  been  the  greatest  that  ever  bound  one  to  a 
person  unseen — so  great  that  these  stairways 
[which  we  are  to  climb  together]  will  now  seem 
to  me  all  too  short.  But  tell  me  (and  forgive 
me  as  a  friend,  if  over-assurance  gives  me  too 
loose  a  rein,  and  as  a  friend  now  explain  to  me), 
how  could  avarice  find  a  place  in  thy  breast  beside 
all  the  wisdom  with  which  thy  zeal  had  filled 
thee?'  These  words  made  Statius  smile  a  little 
at  first;  then  he  answered:  'Every  utterance  of 
thine  is  a  precious  token  of  love  to  me.  Verily 
ofttimes  things  do  occur  which  offer  undue  occasion 
for  misgiving,  because  the  true  reasons  are  hidden. 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Thy  question  discloses  to  me  thy  belief  that  I  was 
avaricious  in  the  other  life,  perhaps  on  account 
of  the  circle  where  I  was.  Now  learn  that  avarice 
was  too  remote  from  me,  and  this  immoderate- 
ness  hath  been  punished  during  thousands  of 
moons.  .  .  .  Therefore,  if  I  have  been  among 
those  people  who  weep  for  avarice,  it  hath  be- 
fallen me  for  the  opposite  cause.' '  And  Statius 
goes  on  to  relate  that  his  salutary  repentance  for 
this  sin  was  aroused  by  meditation  on  the  hidden 
meaning  of  a  passage  in  Virgil's  ALneid. 

If  friendship  is  too  personal  a  sentiment  to  dis- 
cuss, we  must  not  expect  to  meet  in  Dante  much 
exhibition  of  the  still  more  sacred  affections  of 
family  life.  Never,  in  all  his  works,  does  he 
mention  his  wife  or  his  children;  yet  no  one  ever 
wrote  more  sympathetically  of  the  mother  sur- 
rounded by  her  little  ones,  or  of  the  emotions  of 
the  young  child.  Look  for  no  lengthy  descriptions 
of  household  scenes :  you  will  find  only  the  rapidest 
of  sketches,  thrown  in  from  time  to  time  by  way  of 
simile;  but  these  sketches  bear  witness  to  a  close 
and  loving  observation.  Let  me  prove  it  by  a  few 
examples: 

Awaking  late,  no  little  innocent 

So  sudden  plunges  toward  its  mother's  breast, 
With  face  intent  upon  its  nourishment, 

As  I  did  bend. 

And  as  a  babe,  \vhich  stretches  either  arm 
To  reach  its  mother,  after  it  is  fed, 
Showing  a  heart  with  sweet  affection  warm, 

Thus  every  flaming  brightness  reared  its  head. 

[92] 


TEMPERAMENT 

With  that  expectancy  I  turned  aside 

With  which  a  little  child  to  mother  runs, 
Whene'er  he  is  distrest  or  terrified. 

I  turned,  all  dumb  with  wonder,  to  my  guide, 
Just  as  a  child,  who  runs  his  woes  to  tell 
Always  to  her  in  whom  he  doth  confide ; 

And,  as  the  mother  comforteth  full  well 
And  quickly,  too,  her  pale  and  panting  boy 
(That  voice  of  hers  doth  all  his  fears  dispel)   .  .  . 
[From  Dante,  pp.  314-315.] 

Dante  is  rather  fond  of  noting  maternal  affection 
in  birds : 

As  mother  stork  above  the  nest  doth  stir 
In  loving  circles,  when  her  young  are  fed, 
And  they,  all  satisfied,  look  up  at  her  .  .  . 

Let  us  end  with  the  famous  picture  of  the  Floren- 
tine wives  of  the  good  old  times: 

One  watcht  beside  the  cradle  in  the  night 
And,  soothing,  spake  that  language  infantile 
Which  first  doth  fond  parental  ears  delight. 

Another,  swiftly  spinning  all  the  while, 
With  tales  of  Trojans,  Fiesole,  and  Rome 
Her  troop  of  tiny  listeners  doth  beguile. 

[From  Dante,  p.  314.] 

L'una  vegghiava  a  studio  della  culla ; 
E,  consolando,  usava  1'id'i'oma 
Che  pria  li  padri  e  le  madri  trastulla: 

L'altra,  traendo  alia  rocca  la  chioina, 
Favoleggiava  con  la  sua  famiglia 
De'  Troiani,  di  Fiesole  e  di  Roma. 


[93l 


LECTURE   IV 
EXPERIENCE 

IN  the  preceding  lecture  I  spoke  of  Dante's 
temperament,  his  traits  of  character.  These  char- 
acteristics were  vigorously  reinforced  by  the  vi- 
cissitudes of  his  career,  which  also  afforded  various 
opportunity  for  his  gift  of  quick  and  precise 
observation.  Whatever  life  Dante  might  have 
led,  he  would  have  always  been  an  interesting 
personality;  but  without  the  emotions,  the  trials, 
the  hardships,  the  changes  through  which  he 
passed,  his  genius  could  never  have  realized  to  the 
full  its  potential  development.  He  learned  to 
know  the  extremes  of  love  and  hatred,  of  happi- 
ness and  misery,  of  joyous  expectation  and  sad 
retrospect.  To  Dante  himself,  even  more  than  to 
Virgil,  his  teacher,  apply  the  immortal  words  of 
Francesca. 

Ed  clla  a  me:  "  Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria ;  e  cio  sa  il  tuo  dottore." 

The  Florence  of  the  latter  thirteenth  century 
was  a  good  city  to  live  in.  Virtually  independent, 
busy,  eagerly  ambitious,  she  was  attaining,  in  her 
manufactures,  her  trade,  and  her  political  in- 
Huence,  a  foremost  place  among  the  little  munic- 

[94] 


EXPERIENCE 

ipal  republics  of  Italy.  Newly  acquired  wealth 
enabled  her  ancient  civilization  to  break  into 
fresh  flower:  the  refinements  of  courtly  society 
were  easily  adopted  by  her  sturdy  commercial 
population:  the  arts  —  architecture,  painting, 
music,  poetry — were  cultivated  with  all  the  zest 
of  novel  interest,  with  all  the  delight  of  hitherto 
unknown  achievement.  Florence  was  sufficiently 
big  to  lend  distinction  to  any  sort  of  local  suprem- 
acy among  her  citizens,  and  occupations  were  so 
diversified  as  to  afford  opportunity  to  competence 
of  any  kind;  on  the  other  hand,  the  closely  packed 
town  was  small  enough,  and  gossipy  enough,  for 
everyone  of  any  account  to  be  known  to  everyone 
else.  The  conditions,  as  you  see,  were  favorable 
to  the  unfolding  of  talent.  And  talent  did  unfold, 
during  those  decades,  to  an  extraordinary  extent. 
Internal  politics,  to  be  sure,  occupied  much  of  the 
burghers'  attention,  changes  of  government  were 
frequent,  and  party  strife  sometimes  led  to  blood- 
shed. There  was  a  strong  reactionary  group  of 
old-time  aristocrats,  discontented  with  the  modern 
democratic  tendency,  willing  to  resort  to  any 
means  to  maintain  their  ascendency  over  the  de- 
spised commoners;  there  was  an  energetic  middle 
class,  well  organized  in  guilds,  which,  having 
gained  control  of  most  of  the  property  and  power, 
was  bent  on  reducing  the  old  nobility  to  impotence 
and  substituting  for  it  a  new  aristocracy  of  wealth; 
there  were  the  laborers,  important  on  account  of 
their  numbers,  who  sided  now  with  one  party,  now 
with  another,  having  no  consistent  policy.  Family 

[95] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

rivalry,  too,  ran  high.  Indeed,  the  factional 
violence  which  finally  threw  Florence  into  the  wait- 
ing hands  of  the  Pope,  and  brought  about  Dante's 
exile,  appears  to  have  had  its  origin  in  the  social 
competition  of  the  Donati  and  the  Cerchi,  the 
former  being  leaders  among  the  blue-bloods,  the 
latter  preeminent  among  the  new-rich. 

Until  he  was  about  thirty  years  old,  Dante,  it 
would  seem,  did  not  concern  himself  with  politics. 
Belonging  to  a  family  of  modest  possessions  but 
with  some  claim  to  gentle  extraction,  he  was  well 
educated,  well  bred,  and  apparently  mingled  with 
the  socially  elect;  at  any  rate,  he  appears  to  have 
been  affianced  in  childhood  to  one  of  the  Donati 
clan,  whom  he  married  in  due  time;  and  he  had 
as  an  intimate  associate  another  offshoot  of  this 
stock,  Forese  Donati.  His  closest  friend  was 
Guido,  a  distinguished  member  of  the  very  rich 
Cavalcanti  family,  who  had  great  influence  in  the 
progressive  party.  Guido,  a  man  of  independent 
views,  was  a  poet  of  real  merit,  and  also  some- 
thing of  a  philosopher  and  scholar.  Other  friends 
of  young  Alighieri  were  the  notary  Lapo  Gianni 
and  the  jurist  Cino  da  Pistoia  (both  of  them  ex- 
cellent rimesters),  the  musician  Casella,  and,  ac- 
cording to  report,  the  architect  and  painter  Giotto. 
It  was,  you  see,  an  artistic  milieu.  Even  Forese 
Donati  wrote  verses;  and  that  unnamed  brother 
of  Beatrice,  whom  Dante  calls  second  among  his 
friends,  was  evidently  fond  of  them.  Dante  him- 
self early  conceived  a  passion  for  poetry,  and  de- 
voured the  songs  of  southern  France  and  the 

[96] 


EXPERIENCE 

imitations  of  them  made  in  Italy.  Thus  he 
"  found  out  for  himself  "  —  so  he  tells  us  —  "  the 
art  of  composing  things  in  rime."  Among  the 
Provencal  troubadours,  the  one  whom  he  most 
admired  was  Arnaut  Daniel,  a  brilliant  master  of 
technique;  among  the  Italians,  his  favorite  was 
Guido  Guinizelli  of  Bologna,  who  introduced  the 
spiritual,  symbolistic  treatment  of  love.  By  the 
time  he  was  eighteen,  Dante  had  won  some  local 
reputation  as  a  poet;  and  before  he  was  thirty,  his 
fame  had  gone  abroad  to  other  cities.  His  youth- 
ful verse  did  service  to  various  damsels  of  his 
Florence,  but  especially  to  one  whom  he  calls 
Beatrice,  probably  Beatrice  Portinari,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  well-to-do  neighbor.  Very  sweet  and 
dainty  are  these  early  poems.  As  an  example, 
let  me  cite  this  ballad: 

Chorus 

The  memory  of  a  garland 
Shall  always  make  me  sigh 
Whene'er  I  see  a  flower. 

I 

One  day  I  saw  thee,  Lady,  wearing 

A  tiny  garland,  fresh  from  Maying; 
And  over  it  a  fay  was  faring, 

A  modest  little  love-sprite,  swaying, 
With  cunning  music  saying: 
"  Whoso  shall  me  espy 
Shall  praise  my  master's  power." 

The  memory  of  a  garland 
Shall  always  make  me  sigh. 
Whene'er  I  sec  a  flower. 

[97] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

II 

If  I,  O  floweret  sweet  and  fairest, 

Come  close  enough  to  see  thee  twining, 
"  My  Lady,"  I  shall  say,  "  thou  wearest 
My  sighs  upon  thy  head  reclining." 
But  then,  to  prick  my  pining, 
My  Lady  shall  come  nigh 
New-crowned  from  Cupid's  bower. 

The  memory  of  a  garland 
Shall  always  make  me  sigh 
Whene'er  I  see  a  flower. 

Ill 

My  curious  little  words  to  fashion 

A  ballad  out  of  flowers  have  striven, 
Stealing,  to  decorate  their  passion, 
A  garment  once  to  others  given. 
I  beg  thee,  then,  by  Heaven : 
What  man  the  song  shall  try, 
Give  him  thy  richest  dower. 

The  memory  of  a  garland 
Shall  always  make  me  sigh 
Whene'er  I  see  a  flower. 

[From  The  Ladies  of  Dante's  Lyrics,  pp.  38-39.] 

I  have  already  discussed  Dante's  feeling  toward 
Beatrice.  It  is  not  easy  to  define;  but,  whatever 
it  was,  it  was  profound  and  sincere,  and  her  death, 
which  occurred  when  he  was  just  twenty-five, 
affected  him  as  a  grievous  loss.  Yet  during  her 
lifetime  he  had  shown  a  good  deal  of  interest  — 
at  least  in  a  poetic  way —  in  several  other  young 
ladies;  and  at  different  periods  after  her  departure 
he  seems,  as  we  have  noted,  to  have  been  in  love 

[98] 


EXPERIENCE 

with  two  other  women.  One  of  these  he  turned 
into  an  allegorical  figure  of  Philosophy,  as  he  had 
made  Beatrice  a  symbol  of  divine  revelation.  We 
cannot  be  sure  that  he  ever  allegorized  the  other, 
the  irresponsive  Pietra.  Here  is  a  characteristic 
stanza  from  one  of  the  later  love-poems : 

I  cannot  flee  from  her,  nor  yet  prevent 
Her  coming  to  my  mind ; 

Nor  yet  from  thought,  which  brings  her  there,  refrain. 
My  crazy  soul,  on  self-destruction  bent, 
Still  pictures  her,  unkind 

And  beauteous  as  she  is,  and  thus  repeats  its  pain; 

Then  looks  on  her  once  more,  and  full  again 
Of  boundless  longing,  drawn  from  witching  eyes, 
Against  itself  it  cries, 

Which  lit  the  fire  that  burneth  it  to  death. 

All  reason's  checks  and  arguments  are  vain 
When  raging  whirlwinds  in  my  bosom  rise ! 
My  anguish,  loath  to  bide  within  me,  flies 

Forth  from  my  lips  so  plain,  men  hear  its  breath, 

And  eyes  to  pay  their  tribute  summoneth. 

[From  The  Ladies  of  Dante's  Lyrics,  p.  ioo.] 

Even  if  Lionardo  Bruni  and  Dante  himself  had 
not  spoken  of  the  poet's  pursuit  of  knowledge,  we 
should  have  guessed  from  his  works  that  he  was 
an  insatiable  student.  His  great  passion  for  learn- 
ing came  after  the  death  of  his  lady,  and  lasted 
throughout  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  mastered  the 
philosophers  and  theologians  of  the  Middle  Ages 
and  all  the  classic  Latin  literature  that  was  acces- 
sible; grammar,  logic,  rhetoric  he  acquired,  as- 
tronomy and  mathematics,  such  history  and  geog- 
raphy as  he  could  get;  and  we  may  infer  from  a 

[99] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

curious  passage  in  the  Paradiso,  describing  an 
experiment  with  a  light  and  three  mirrors,  that  he 
even  attempted  some  investigation  of  his  own  in 
physics.  He  certainly  learned  much  of  music  and 
painting;  and  he  read  pretty  extensively  in  the 
vernacular  literature  of  France  and  Italy.  It  is 
very  odd  that  he  nowhere  mentions  a  noted  con- 
temporary scholar  in  a  neighboring  city,  Albertino 
Mussato  of  Padua,  author  of  a  Latin  play  on  the 
tyrant  Ezzelino  da  Romano,  the  first  tragedy  in 
modern  letters.  Nowhere  does  he  speak  of  the 
most  famous  French  work  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
a  poem  written  in  his  own  century,  known  in  part 
to  his  master,  Brunetto  Latini,  and  very  cleverly 
paraphrased  in  Italian  at  about  the  time  of  Dante's 
marriage  —  the  Romance  of  the  Rose.  This 
paraphrase,  by  the  way,  is  so  admirable  that  some 
have  actually  ascribed  it  to  Dante  himself.  For 
these  omissions  we  cannot  account. 

How  Dante  supported  himself,  either  before 
or  after  his  exile,  is  a  question  for  which  the 
answer  is  lacking.  His  father,  apparently,  had 
been  a  notary;  but  we  do  not  know  that  the  son 
had  any  profession.  In  early  childhood  he  lost 
his  mother;  and  his  father,  after  marrying  again, 
died  while  Dante  was  still  a  boy,  leaving  him 
with  the  charge  of  a  half-sister  and  a  half-brother, 
in  addition,  it  would  seem,  to  an  own  sister. 
When  a  little  over  thirty,  Dante  wedded  Gemma 
Donati,  by  whom  he  had  four  children,  two  boys 
and  two  girls.  We  know  nothing  whatever  of  his 
domestic  life,  except  that  when  he  went  into 

J 


EXPERIENCE 

banishment,  his  family  did  not  accompany  him, 
although  at  the  close  of  his  pilgrimage  three  of 
his  children  were  living  near  him  in  Ravenna. 
We  do  know,  also,  that  he  somehow  got  into 
financial  difficulties  in  Florence,  accumulating  a 
debt  that  was  not  paid  until  after  his  death.  It 
is  hard  to  resist  the  temptation  to  associate  this 
experience  with  Dante's  repeated  insistence  on 
the  wickedness  of  prodigality.  Both  in  Hell  and 
in  Purgatory,  you  remember,  this  fault  is  put  on 
a  par  with  avarice.  The  Latin  poet  Statius,  who 
seems  in  some  respects  to  be  a  copy  of  the  author, 
is  represented  as  having  been  a  spendthrift;  he 
it  is  that  laments  the  ignorance  which  prevents 
men  from  recognizing  that  prodigality  is  a  sin 
and  from  correcting  themselves  in  time  to  escape 
damnation. 

At  about  the  date  of  his  marriage,  Dante  went 
into  politics.  He  had  previously  done  his  duty  as 
a  soldier,  in  a  campaign  against  the  Aretines. 
Inasmuch  as  the  new  constitution  restricted  im- 
portant office  to  members  of  guilds,  Dante  entered 
the  corporation  of  doctors  and  apothecaries,  which 
included  also  booksellers  and  painters.  It  was  a 
rich,  powerful  guild,  and  it  probably  contained 
some  of  Dante's  good  friends.  He  was  elected 
to  two  popular  city  councils,  was  a  member  of  a 
special  committee,  and  was  sent  on  a  mission  to 
San  Gemignano;  but  although  we  find  an  occa- 
sional record  of  a  vote  or  a  speech  by  him,  we 
know  next  to  nothing  of  his  share  in  public  affairs 
until  he  became  a  Prior  in  1300.  There  were  six 
[101] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Priors,  who  formed  the  principal  executive  branch 
of  the  government;  they  held  office  for  only  two 
months,  and  could  not  be  immediately  reflected. 
In  political  matters,  Dante's  sympathies  were 
divided.  As.  an  enthusiastic  champion  of  munic- 
ipal independence,  he  naturally  sided  with  the 
bourgeois  party,  called  the  Whites,  who  were 
opposed  to  papal  control  of  the  city.  As  a  gentle- 
man and  an  associate  of  the  Donati,  —  who  were 
leaders  of  the  Blacks, — he  must  have  disliked 
the  crudeness  of  the  dominant  middle  class  and 
deplored  their  attempt  to  suppress  the  aristocracy. 
He  had  friends  on  both  sides  of  the  house - 
Guido  Cavalcanti  with  the  Whites,  Forese  Donati 
with  the  Blacks.  The  latter  died,  however,  in 
1296. 

For  the  opinion  of  the  ordinary  run  of  men, 
Dante  had  little  respect.  He  was  no  democrat. 
'  The  common  people,"  he  says  in  the  Banquet, 
"  are  for  the  most  part  bereft  of  the  light  of  dis- 
cretion, because,  being  engaged  from  the  beginning 
of  their  lives  in  some  business,  they  necessarily 
so  turn  their  minds  to  it  as  to  think  of  naught 
else.  And  since  the  use  of  any  moral  or  intel- 
lectual virtue  cannot  be  acquired  suddenly,  but 
must  be  won  by  practice,  and  they  put  their  prac- 
tice in  some  trade,  without  concern  for  other 
things,  it  is  impossible  for  them  to  have  judgment. 
They  are  to  be  called  sheep,  not  men.  For  if  one 
sheep  should  throw  itself  from  a  cliff  a  thousand 
paces  high,  all  the  others  would  go  after  it;  and 
if  one  sheep  for  any  reason  gives  a  jump  while 
[  102] 


EXPERIENCE 

crossing  a  road,  all  the  others  jump,  though  they 
see  nothing  to  jump  over."  In  the  New  Life, 
after  having  explained  one  of  his  poems,  he  adds: 
"  I  admit  that  for  the  further  disclosure  of  the 
meaning  of  this  ode,  a  more  minute  analysis  would 
be  required.  But,  nevertheless,  if  there  be  any 
persons  of  insufficient  wit  to  understand  it  with  the 
analysis  already  given,  I  should  not  be  sorry  to 
have  them  let  it  alone;  for  really  I  fear  I  have 
conveyed  its  meaning  to  all  too  many  people  by 
analysing  it  as  I  have  —  provided  it  should  come 
to  pass  that  many  should  have  an  opportunity  to 
hear  it."  Literature  is  for  choice  spirits  alone  — 
not  for  Master  Martin  or  Mistress  Bertha.  So 
it  is  with  science,  morals,  government:  only  the 
enlightened,  the  competent  should  presume  to 
guide.  Of  his  own  competence  Dante  had  no 
doubt.  You  know  the  old  anecdote  which  rep- 
resents him  as  saying,  when  Florence  was  to  select 
someone  for  a  difficult  mission:  "  If  I  go,  who 
remains?  and  if  I  remain,  who  goes?  "  I  do  not 
believe  this  story:  in  the  first  place,  because 
anecdotes  hardly  ever  are  true;  in  the  second 
place,  because  I  think  Dante  was  too  well-bred  to 
make  such  a  remark.  But  he  may  very  well  have 
thought  it. 

Determined  our  poet  was  to  rise  above  the 
vulgar  herd,  to  attain  a  high  place  even  among 
the  exalted.  Ambition  was  unmistakably  a  direct- 
ing force  in  his  life.  It  is  interesting  to  note  how 
he  portrays  the  souls  of  ambitious  men  in  Heaven. 
You  recall  how  pale  and  feeble  are  the  images  of 

[  103] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

weak-willed  spirits  in  the  moon  —  the  class  of  the 
blest  that  is  content  with  the  lowest  degree  of 
happiness.  Now,  the  ambitious  are,  in  the  scale 
of  beatitude,  the  next-to-lowest;  but  how  different 
they  look  to  Dante's  eye,  as  he  comes  among  them 
in  the  midst  of  the  planet  Mercury !  Like  a  school 
of  fishes  approaching  the  surface  of  a  still  pond, 
he  sees  more  than  a  thousand  bright  forms  ad- 
vancing through  the  light,  all  of  them  crying: 
"  Lo !  here  is  one  who  shall  add  to  the  sum  of  our 
love!"  And,  as  each  one  draws  near,  the  poet 
can  discern  the  glad  soul  within  the  clear  effulgence 
that  issues  from  it.  '  Think,  reader,"  he  con- 
tinues, "  if  that  which  is  now  beginning  should  not 
go  on,  what  an  agonizing  hunger  thou  wouldst 
have,  to  learn  more,  and  thou  shalt  see  for  thyself 
how  eager  I  was  to  hear  from  these  spirits  what 
was  their  state,  as  soon  as  they  became  visible  to 
my  eyes."  One  of  the  pious  throng  bids  him  put 
his  question,  and  Beatrice  cries:  "Speak,  speak! 
and  believe  them  as  thou  wouldst  believe  creatures 
divine!"  "I  see  clearly,"  responds  the  poet, 
"  how  thou  dost  nestle  in  thine  own  gleam,  and 
how  thou  dost  shoot  it  from  thine  eyes;  because 
they  sparkle  so  when  thou  smilest.  But  who  thou 
art  I  know  not,  nor  why,  worthy  soul,  thou  hast 
the  degree  of  that  planet  which  is  veiled  from 
mortals  by  the  sun's  rays."  "Thus  I  spake,  look- 
ing at  the  light  that  had  first  addressed  me. 
Whereupon  it  grew  far  brighter  than  before.  As 
the  sun,  which,  after  its  heat  hath  consumed  the 
thick,  tempering  mists,  hideth  itself  with  its  own 
[  104] 


EXPERIENCE 

excessive  blaze,  even  so,  as  its  joy  increased,  this 
holy  figure  concealed  itself  within  its  own  rays, 
and  thus,  all  enveloped,  it  answered  me."  The 
spirit  is  Justinian,  who  proceeds  to  narrate  the 
glorious  history  of  Rome. 

Distinction  came  to  Dante  with  his  elevation 
to  the  Council  of  Priors;  but  it  was  an  honor  full 
of  peril.  The  early  summer  of  1300  was  a  critical 
moment.  A  papal  plot  had  been  unearthed  in 
the  city,  three  Florentine  conspirators  had  been 
caught,  and  the  new  Council  inherited  the  danger- 
ous task  of  executing  the  severe  sentence  passed 
on  the  culprits.  The  Pope,  who  had  been  breath- 
ing fearful  threats  against  Florence,  sent  thither 
as  an  ostensible  peacemaker  Cardinal  Matteo 
d'Acquasparta.  Bloody  street-riots  ensued.  There- 
upon the  Priors  ordered  out  of  the  city  the  chiefs 
of  both  factions,  among  them  Guido  Cavalcanti, 
Dante's  first  friend.  The  government's  decree 
was  obeyed  by  the  Whites,  and  Cavalcanti  died  of 
a  fever  contracted  during  his  short  banishment; 
but  the  Blacks,  trusting  to  the  cardinal,  remained. 
At  this  point  Dante's  term  of  office  expired,  and 
we  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  went  to 
Rome  with  the  vast  army  of  pilgrims  who  were 
drawn  there  by  the  great  papal  jubilee.  Religious 
excitement  thus  followed  close  upon  an  exhausting 
political  strain.  It  is  in  this  jubilee  year  of  1300 
that  Dante  puts  the  action  of  his  Divine  Comedy. 
The  next  spring  found  Dante  a  member  of  an 
electoral  commission;  presently  he  is  charged  with 
the  supervision  of  alterations  in  a  street.  We 
[  105  ] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

learn  that  he  spoke  several  times,  once  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  cardinal,  who  had  demanded  a  hun- 
dred horsemen.  Pope  Boniface,  meanwhile,  had 
worked  out  a  plan  to  gain  possession  of  Florence: 
Charles  of  Valois,  brother  of  the  French  king, 
was  invited  by  him  to  occupy  the  city  and  reconcile 
the  contestants.  Quick  to  see  the  significance  of 
this  move,  the  Florentines  sent  a  delegation,  — 
of  which  forlorn  hope  Dante  was  probably  a 
member, — on  a  fruitless  mission  to  plead  with 
the  Pope.  During  their  absence,  Charles  entered 
Florence  and  gave  it  over  to  the  Blacks,  who 
sacked  the  houses  of  their  adversaries.  Boniface 
appointed  a  mayor  of  his  own,  and  the  city  be- 
came for  a  time  a  part  of  the  papal  domain.  The 
cardinal,  on  his  return  to  Florence,  set  about 
devising,  in  conjunction  with  the  new  mayor,  the 
total  destruction  of  the  independent  party  which 
had  opposed  him. 

In  January,  1302,  a  number  of  recent  officials, 
among  them  Dante,  were  accused  of  various  crimes 
and  condemned  to  fine,  two  years'  exile,  and  con- 
fiscation of  their  goods.  They  were  summoned 
also  to  appear  before  the  court  within  three  days; 
and,  as  none  of  them  were  foolish  enough  to  com- 
ply with  this  command,  they  were  in  March 
sentenced  to  death  by  fire.  A  persecution  of  the 
other  Whites  ensued ;  and  at  last  Charles  of  Valois, 
having  completed  his  work,  took  his  leave.  He  is 
treated  in  the  Divine  Comedy  with  a  scorn  almost 
beyond  words.  "Without  weapons  he  issues 
forth  alone,  with  the  lance  with  which  Judas  tilted; 
[106] 


EXPERIENCE 

and  with  that  he  pricks  so  well  that  he  bursts  the 
belly  of  Florence.  Thereby  shall  he  win  not  land, 
but  sin  and  shame,  which  shall  weigh  on  him  the 
heavier,  the  more  lightly  he  esteems  such  mishap." 
The  plotter  who  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  mis- 
chief, Pope  Boniface  VIII,  the  poet  represents 
not  only  as  a  dishonest  prelate  but  as  a  shameless 
usurper,  for  whom  a  place  in  Hell  was  waiting 
when  Dante  journeyed  below.  "  Art  thou  already 
standing  there,"  cries  a  lost  soul,  planted  upside 
down  in  a  hole  in  the  rock,  on  hearing  Dante 
speak,  "  art  thou  already  standing  there,  Boni- 
face? The  writing  [of  destiny]  hath  lied  to  me 
by  several  years.  Art  thou  already  cloyed  with 
that  pelf,  for  the  sake  of  which  thou  didst  not  fear 
to  wed  by  trickery  our  fair  lady  [the  Church] 
and  then  to  despoil  her?" 

It  is  now  possible  to  understand  Dante's  hatred 
of  treachery  —  a  hatred  which  at  first  shocks  the 
modern  reader.  Traitors  are  at  the  very  bottom 
of  his  Hell,  embedded  in  ice;  and,  far  from  show- 
ing them  any  mercy,  he  has  a  right  good  will  to 
pay  them  in  their  own  coin.  So  he  does  with  a 
certain  Friar  Alberic;  this  villain  had  caused  his 
guests  to  be  murdered,  at  his  own  table,  by  assas- 
sins who,  concealed  behind  the  tapestries,  sprang 
out  at  the  signal:  "Serve  the  fruit."  Listen  to 
the  poet's  story:  "One  of  the  sufferers  in  the 
frigid  crust  cried  out  to  us :  '  O  souls,  so  cruel  that 
ye  are  sent  to  the  last  station,  remove  from  my 
face  the  stiff  veil  [of  ice]  so  that  I  may  vent  the 
grief  which  steeps  my  heart,  for  a  little  while, 
[  107  ] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

until  the  tears  freeze  up  again!  '  And  I  replied: 
'  If  thou  wouldst  have  me  help  thee,  tell  me  who 
thou  art;  and  then  if  I  relieve  thee  not,  may  I 
have  to  go  to  the  hottom  of  the  ice !  '  At  that 
he  answered:  'I  am  Brother  Alberic,  he  of  the 
fruit  of  the  evil  orchard,  who  here  am  getting 
date  for  fig.'  '  Oh ! '  said  I  to  him,  '  art  thou  then 
dead  already?'  'How  it  may  be  with  my  body 
in  the  world  above,'  said  he,  '  I  have  no  knowl- 
edge. This  [region  of  Hell  called]  Tolomea 
hath  the  privilege  that  ofttimes  the  soul  falls  here 
before  Atropos  gives  it  the  push.  And,  to  make 
thee  readier  to  scrape  from  my  face  the  glassy 
tears,  I  tell  thee  that,  as  soon  as  a  soul  betrays 
as  I  did,  its  body  is  taken  from  it  by  a  demon 
which  afterwards  directs  it  until  its  [allotted] 
time  shall  have  revolved,  while  the  soul  plunges 
down  into  the  tank.  Perhaps  there  is  still  to  be 
seen  above  the  body  of  that  shade  which  is  winter- 
ing here  behind  me.  Thou  must  know,  if  thou  hast 
just  arrived  down  here.  He  is  Master  Branca 
d'  Oria,  and  several  years  have  gone  by  since  he 
was  thus  confined.'  '  I  believe,'  said  I,  '  that  thou 
deceivest  me,  for  Branca  d'  Oria  hath  never  died; 
he  eats  and  drinks  and  puts  on  clothes.'  '  Not 
yet,'  was  the  reply,  '  had  [his  victim]  Michel 
Zanche  reached  the  ditch  of  Badpaws,  higher  up 
[in  Hell],  where  the  sticky  pitch  is  boiling,  when 
this  man  left  in  his  body  a  devil  in  his  stead;  and 
so  did  one  of  his  kinsmen,  who  committed  the  act 
of  treachery  with  him.  But  now  stretch  out  thy 
hand  hither,  open  mine  eyes !  '  But  I  did  not 
[108] 


EXPERIENCE 

open  them  for  him.     And  it  was  kindness  to  be 
harsh  to  him." 

After  the  condemnation  of  March,  1302, 
Dante  was  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
"  Ever  since  it  was  the  pleasure  of  the  citizens 
of  Florence,  that  most  beautiful  and  famous 
daughter  of  Rome,  to  cast  me  out  of  her  sweetest 
bosom,  in  which  I  was  born  and  bred  up  to  the 
middle  point  of  life,  and  in  which,  with  their  good 
will,  I  yearn  with  all  my  heart  to  rest  my  tired 
mind  and  end  the  time  allotted  me,"  says  Dante 
in  the  Banquet,  "[ever  since  then]  I  have  traveled 
through  nearly  all  the  regions  over  which  our 
language  extends,  a  stranger,  almost  a  beggar, 
displaying  against  my  wish  the  wound  of  Fortune, 
for  which  the  blame  is  ofttimes  unjustly  put  upon 
the  wounded  one.  In  truth  I  have  been  a  ship 
without  sail  or  helm,  carried  to  various  harbors 
and  inlets  and  shores  by  the  dry  wind  which  blows 
from  grievous  poverty."  "As  Hippolytus  went 
forth  from  Athens,"  declares  the  prophetic  speech 
of  Dante's  ancestor,  Cacciaguida,  "  so  must  thou 
go  forth  from  Florence.  This  is  willed,  this  is 
already  devised,  and  soon  shall  be  accomplished 
by  him  who  contriveth  it  in  the  city  where  Christ 
is  daily  bought  and  sold.  The  blame  shall  follow 
the  injured  party,  in  report,  as  it  always  does; 
but  the  punishment  shall  bear  witness  to  the  truth, 
which  dispenses  it.  Thou  shalt  leave  behind  all 
things  most  dearly  loved;  and  this  is  the  arrow 
which  exile's  bow  first  shoots."  In  the  envoy  of 
one  of  his  odes,  the  poet  cries:  "  O  my  mountain 

[  I09] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

song,  thou  goest  forth.  Haply  shalt  thou  see 
Florence,  my  city,  which,  void  of  love  and  bare 
of  pity,  locks  me  outside." 

In  1311  Dante  was  expressly  excluded  from  a 
proclamation  of  amnesty,  and  in  1315  his  sentence 
was  renewed.  A  letter  attributed  to  him  explains 
why  he  had  rejected  a  pardon  offered  on  condition 
that  he  pay  a  fine  and  do  public  penance.  Still, 
from  beginning  to  end,  he  probably  never  aban- 
doned altogether  the  hope  of  restoration.  In  the 
first  years  of  their  misfortune  the  banished  Whites 
banded  together,  concentrating  principally  in  Bo- 
logna, and  left  nothing  undone  to  regain  their 
homes:  they  sought  help  from  earlier  exiles,  they 
appealed  to  cities  hostile  to  Florence.  In  1303 
and  1304  there  were  unsuccessful  military  attacks. 
Failure  begat  recrimination  and  dissension;  and 
Dante,  turning  his  back  on  his  fellow-outcasts, 
formed,  as  he  said,  a  party  by  himself.  Five  or 
six  years  later,  a  dazzling  new  hope  arose,  to  be 
followed  by  bitter  disappointment.  In  1309 
Henry  of  Luxemburg  was  crowned  Emperor  with 
the  title  of  Henry  VII,  and,  soon  after,  came 
down  into  Italy  to  restore  peace,  order,  and 
justice.  Henry  was  an  idealist,  a  firm  believer, 
like  the  poet  himself,  in  the  divinely  ordained 
function  of  the  Empire.  Sundry  Latin  letters, 
written  at  this  time,  show  Dante  almost  mad  with 
enthusiasm  and  impatience.  What  he  suffered  we 
can  imagine,  when  in  1313  his  hero  died,  without 
having  fulfilled  his  mission.  A  throne  is  reserved 
for  the  Emperor  in  Heaven.  "On  that  high  scat 
[no] 


EXPERIENCE 

upon  which  thou  bendest  thine  eyes  because  of  the 
crown  above  it,  shall  sit,"  says  Beatrice,  "  ere  thou 
sup  at  this  marriage  banquet,  the  soul  of  mighty 
Henry,  imperial  on  earth,  who  shall  come  to 
straighten  Italy  before  she  is  ready.  The  blind 
greed  that  bewitches  mortals  hath  made  them  like 
unto  the  babe,  which,  though  dying  of  hunger, 
driveth  away  its  nurse."  One  hope  remained: 
perhaps  his  poetic  fame  would  move  his  fellow- 
citizens  to  open  their  gates  to  him.  "If  it  ever 
come  to  pass,"  writes  Dante  in  his  Paradiso, 
"  that  my  sacred  poem,  on  which  Heaven  and 
earth  have  set  their  hand,  so  that  it  hath  made  me 
lean  this  many  a  year,  overcome  the  cruelty  which 
locks  me  outside  the  pretty  fold,  —  where  I  slept 
as  a  lamb,  hated  by  the  wolves  that  attack  it,  — 
with  a  changed  voice  at  last,  with  a  changed  fleece, 
I  shall  return  a  poet,  and  over  my  baptismal  font 
shall  receive  the  crown."  An  invitation  to  Bo- 
logna, with  expectation  of  a  laurel  wreath,  the  poet 
courteously  rejected,  still  putting  his  faith  in 
Florence,  which  was  stubborn  to  the  end. 

During  his  twenty  years  of  exile,  Dante,  as  far 
as  we  know,  was  a  dependent,  living  for  the  most 
part  on  the  bounty  of  the  great,  to  whom  he 
rendered  such  service  as  he  could.  '  Thou  shalt 
learn,"  prophesies  Cacciaguida,  "  how  salty  is  the 
taste  of  other  men's  bread,  and  what  a  hard  road 
it  is  to  climb  up  and  down  other  men's  stairs." 
No  doubt  he  met  with  many  humiliations  during 
those  weary  years  when,  in  his  own  words,  "  he 
brought  himself  to  quiver  in  every  vein."  Rivalry 
[in] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

he  surely  had  to  encounter,  unworthy  self-seeking, 
envy,  "  that  bawd  which  never  hath  turned  her 
lusting  eyes  away  from  Caesar's  house,"  envy, 
"  death  of  all  mankind,  and  vice  of  courts."  No 
wonder  indignation  became  with  him  an  habitual 
mood  and  condemnation  his  wonted  solace.  I 
have  spoken  of  the  loathsome  fate  of  flatterers  in 
his  Hell.  Money-lenders  fare  but  little  better. 
Sitting  under  a  rain  of  fire,  disfigured  beyond 
recognition,  they  are  distinguishable  only  by  the 
coats  of  arms  on  the  money-bags  dangling  from 
their  necks;  for  they  are  gentlemen  of  good  birth, 
all  Florentines  but  one.  "  Out  of  their  eyes  gushed 
their  grief.  First  here,  then  there,  they  kept  up 
the  defense  with  their  hands,  now  from  the  flames, 
now  from  the  hot  ground.  Even  so  do  dogs  be- 
have in  summertime,  with  snout  and  foot,  when 
they  are  bitten  by  fleas  or  gnats  or  flies.  On  the 
faces  of  some  of  them,  on  whom  the  painful  fire 
descends,  I  set  eyes,  but  recognized  not  one.  I 
observed,  however,  that  from  the  neck  of  each 
hung  a  pouch  with  a  certain  color  and  a  certain 
design;  and  their  eyes  seemed  to  feed  on  these." 
One  of  them  speaks  to  the  traveler;  and  "  at  that 
he  twisted  his  mouth  and  stuck  out  his  tongue,  like 
an  ox  licking  its  nose." 

Still  lower  in  the  human  scale  is  the  snake-like 
thief.  Even  thieves  are  sometimes  of  genteel 
stock.  Listen  to  the  horrible  doom  of  two  of 
them,  who  appear  to  Dante, — the  first  shaped 
as  a  man  standing  beside  a  companion,  the  second 
as  a  four-legged  serpent,  —  and  slowly  exchange 

[112] 


EXPERIENCE 

their  forms.  "  As,  under  the  heavy  scourge  of 
dog-days,  the  lizard,  changing  its  hedge,  looks 
like  a  flash  of  lightning  when  it  crosses  the  road, 
thus,  darting  toward  the  bellies  of  the  other  two 
[shades],  there  came  a  fiery  little  snake,  livid  and 
black  as  a  peppercorn.  First  it  pierced,  in  one 
of  them,  that  spot  where  the  human  babe  first 
receives  nourishment;  then  it  dropped  down  out- 
stretched before  him.  The  pricked  one  stared 
at  it,  saying  nothing,  but  yawning,  with  feet  mo- 
tionless, as  if  sleep  or  fever  were  upon  him.  He 
glared  at  the  snake,  and  the  snake  at  him,  both  of 
them  sending  out  a  thick  smoke,  the  one  through 
his  wound,  the  other  through  its  mouth;  and  the 
smokes  met.  .  .  .  Keeping  time  together,  this 
is  what  they  did.  The  serpent  split  his  tail  into  a 
fork.  The  wounded  man  pressed  his  legs  tight, 
one  against  the  other;  and  shins  and  thighs  so 
grew  together  that  in  a  little  while  the  line  of 
joining  could  no  longer  be  seen.  The  cleft  tail 
took  the  shape  that  was  disappearing  in  the  other 
body.  Its  skin  softened,  and  the  skin  of  the  other 
hardened.  I  saw  the  arms  shooting  in  through  the 
armpits,  and  the  reptile's  two  little  front  feet 
lengthening  just  as  the  man's  arms  shortened. 
While  the  smoke  shrouded  both  of  them  in  a 
strange  color,  generating  hair  on  one  head  and 
stripping  it  from  the  other,  the  first  stood  up,  the 
second  dropped  down,  neither  for  a  moment 
averting  his  evil  gleaming  eyes,  under  which  the 
snouts  were  changing.  The  upright  one  slid  his 
muzzle  back  toward  the  temples,  and,  out  of  the 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

superabundant  matter  which  was  drawn  thither, 
ears  emerged  from  the  smooth  cheeks;  as  much  of 
that  superfluity  as  remained,  instead  of  running 
back,  made  a  nose  on  the  face,  and  thickened  the 
lips  to  the  proper  extent.  The  prostrate  one 
projects  his  snout,  and  slips  his  ears  into  his  head, 
as  a  snail  pulls  in  its  horns;  and  the  tongue,  which 
was  whole  and  fit  for  speech,  is  cleft,  while  the 
other's  forked  tongue  is  closed  up.  And  the  smoke 
stops.  The  soul  transformed  into  a  beast  flees 
hissing  through  the  valley;  the  other  is  left  be- 
hind to  speak  and  spit." 

Such  was  the  impression  made  on  Dante  by 
many  of  the  types  of  humanity  that  he  encountered 
on  his  wanderings.  All  sorts  and  conditions  of 
men  he  must  have  met,  from  "  the  mountaineer, 
who  comes  to  town  all  rough  and  wild,  and  silently 
stares  in  open-mouthed  confusion,"  to  the  haughty 
lordlings  who  "  think  themselves  great  kings,  but 
after  death  shall  be  as  pigs  in  dung,  leaving  behind 
them  on  earth  horrible  contempt."  The  hunter 
he  knew,  who  "  wastes  his  life  watching  for  little 
birds;  "  the  "  modern  prelate,  who  has  grown  so 
great  that  he  needs  some  one  to  prop  him  on  either 
side,  and  some  one  to  lead,  and  some  one  to  hold 
him  up  behind,  while  he  covers  his  palfrey  with  his 
mantle,  so  that  two  beasts  go  marching  under  one 
hide;  "  the  gambler,  who  in  failure  and  in  success 
is  thus  depicted:  "  When  the  game  of  dice  breaks 
up,  the  loser  is  left  behind  to  repine,  going  over 
the  throws  again,  a  sadder  and  wiser  man.  But 
all  the  gang  goes  off  with  the  other,  one  walking 


EXPERIENCE 

in  front  of  him,  one  plucking  at  him  from  behind, 
one  beside  him  claiming  his  attention.  He  forges 
ahead,  hearing  this  one  and  that,  [from  time  to 
time]  stretching  out  his  hand  to  some  one  of  them, 
who  then  drops  out  of  the  press;  and  thus  he 
escapes  from  their  crowding."  "  O  witless  striv- 
ing of  mortals,"  exclaims  the  poet  in  his  Paradiso, 
"  how  faulty  are  the  arguments  that  make  thy 
wings  flutter  downwards !  One  man  was  chasing 
after  law,  another  after  the  Aphorisms  [of  Hip- 
pocrates] ;  one  was  pursuing  priesthood;  another, 
power,  by  means  of  violence  or  sophistry;  one, 
robbery;  another,  municipal  business;  one  was 
wearing  himself  out,  entangled  in  the  pleasures 
of  the  flesh;  another  was  devoting  himself  to 
idleness  —  while  I,  liberated  from  all  these  things, 
in  company  with  Beatrice,  was  so  gloriously  wel- 
comed in  Heaven  above  !  " 

It  would  have  been  sad  indeed  if  Dante,  in  his 
long  banishment,  had  seen  nothing  but  wickedness 
and  folly,  if  the  only  note  awakened  by  his  ex- 
perience had  been  one  of  reprobation.  Happily 
he  found  also  courtesy  and  kindness,  recognition 
of  his  talent,  fame  and  respect,  generous  hos- 
pitality, to  which  his  grateful  nature  was  quick  to 
respond.  Contentment  was  never  his,  for  he 
could  be  satisfied  with  nothing  short  of  rehabilita- 
tion in  his  native  city;  but  his  last  years  seem  to 
have  been  in  the  main  placid,  if  not  cheerful. 
Sweet  to  him  was  the  thought  of  benefits  received, 
and  a  delight  it  was  to  record  the  names  of  bene- 
factors. Some  of  these  names  would  have  per- 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

ished  utterly,  had  he  not  saved  them  from  oblivion. 
What  do  we  know  of  the  young  hostess  Gentucca, 
save  that  she  made  the  Tuscan  city  of  Lucca  dear 
to  Dante,  in  spite  of  its  evil  repute?  Who  would 
remember  the  name  of  Alagia  dei  Fieschi,  married 
to  Moroello  Malaspina,  had  she  not  entertained 
our  wanderer  in  the  Lunigiana,  in  northwestern 
Italy?  Of  her  the  shade  of  her  uncle,  Pope 
Adrian  V,  speaks  thus  in  Purgatory:  "  I  have  a 
niece  yonder,  called  Alagia,  good  by  nature,  if 
only  my  house  make  her  not  wicked  by  its  [bad] 
example;  and  she  is  the  only  one  I  have  left  [to 
pray  for  me]  on  the  other  side."  Little  report 
has  come  to  us  of  "  good  Gherardo,"  who  was  in 
fact  Captain  General  of  Trevigi,  in  the  northeast, 
a  member  of  the  powerful  family  of  Camino,  but 
of  whom  the  poet  implies  that  he  is  sufficiently 
identified  by  adding  the  epithet  "courtly"  to  the 
adjective  "  good,"  habitually  applied  to  him.  He 
is  one  of  the  three  old  men  who  still  represent,  in 
upper  Italy,  the  gentle  breeding  of  past  genera- 
tions. ''  In  the  country  watered  by  the  Adige  and 
the  Po,"  says  Mark  the  Lombard,  "  goodness 
and  courtesy  used  to  dwell,  before  [Emperor] 
Frederick  had  his  quarrel  [with  the  papacy]  ;  but 
now  that  land  may  be  fearlessly  crossed  by  anyone 
who  shall  have  forsworn,  through  shame,  all  com- 
pany and  converse  with  the  righteous.  Neverthe- 
less, there  still  remain  three  old  men,  a  rebuke 
of  the  former  age  to  the  present;  and  the  time 
seems  long  to  them  ere  God  restore  them  to  a 
better  life  [above]  :  Corrado  da  Palazzo  and 
[116] 


EXPERIENCE 

good  Gherardo  and  Guido  da  Castello,  of  whom 
it  is  better  to  speak,  in  French  fashion,  as  '  the 
honest  Lombard.' ' 

To  and  fro  Dante  must  have  journeyed,  in 
central  and  northern  Italy.  His  presence  is  at- 
tested in  Padua  and  in  Venice.  At  some  time  he 
surely  studied  in  Bologna.  It  is  barely  possible 
even  that  he  went  to  Paris,  as  Villani  and  Boc- 
caccio affirm.  But  for  the  most  part  his  routes 
and  his  stations  are  unknown.  We  are  sure  of 
this  much,  that  he  was  hospitably  received  in 
Verona  by  Bartolomeo  (or  perhaps  Alboino) 
della  Scala  in  1303  or  1304;  by  Moroello  Mala- 
spina  in  the  Lunigiana  in  1306;  in  Verona  again 
by  Can  Grande  della  Scala;  and  in  his  last  years 
by  Guido  Novello  da  Polenta,  nephew  of  Fran- 
cesca  da  Rimini,  in  Ravenna,  "  where  the  Po 
descends  to  find  peace  from  its  pursuers."  To  the 
families  of  Malaspina  and  la  Scala  —  and  espe- 
cially to  Can  Grande  —  he  pays  fine  tribute. 
Why,  in  his  extant  works,  he  has  no  praise  for 
Ravenna,  the  Polenta  clan,  or  Guido  Novello,  his 
last  host,  I  cannot  guess.  It  was  in  Ravenna  that 
Dante  died  in  1321. 

A  Latin  letter,  ostensibly  by  Dante  and  prob- 
ably authentic,  dedicates  the  Paradise  to  Can 
Grande,  to  whom  the  first  canto  is  sent  with  this 
document.  The  epistle  is  thus  addressed:  "To 
the  magnificent  and  victorious  lord,  Lord  Can 
Grande  della  Scala,  Vicar  General  of  the  most 
holy  Roman  Empire  in  the  city  of  Verona  and  the 
town  of  Vicenza,  his  most  devoted  Dante  Ali- 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

ghieri,  a  Florentine  by  birth  but  not  in  character, 
wishes  a  life  happy  through  time  everlasting  and 
a  perpetual  increase  of  his  glorious  name."  The 
letter  begins  by  declaring  that  the  author  was 
attracted  to  Can  Grande's  court  by  its  far-spread 
and  almost  unbelievable  fame.  '  There  did  I 
behold  your  greatness,  there  did  I  both  see  and 
feel  your  kindness;  and  whereas  I  had  previously 
suspected  exaggeration  on  the  part  of  those  who 
had  told  thereof,  I  now  learned  that  the  exaggera- 
tion was  on  the  part  of  the  facts  themselves.  And 
so  it  came  to  pass  that  having  already  been,  from 
report  alone,  a  respectful  well-wisher,  I  became 
at  first  sight  a  liegeman  and  a  friend."  Dante's 
earlier  sojourn  in  Verona  is  thus  prophesied  by 
Cacciaguida :  "  Thy  first  refuge  and  thy  first  inn 
shall  be  the  courtesy  of  that  great  Lombard  who 
bears  [on  his  coat  of  arms]  the  sacred  bird  [of 
Empire]  at  the  top  of  the  ladder.  He  shall  have 
for  thee  such  considerate  regard  that  —  between 
you  two  —  of  doing  and  asking,  that  one  shall 
come  first  which,  among  others,  lags  behind." 
In  Verona  Dante  is  to  see  Can  Grande,  at  that 
time  a  boy  of  nine,  of  whom  Cacciaguida  foretells 
momentous  things,  "  things  incredible  even  to 
those  who  shall  behold  them." 

Another  Latin  epistle,  generally  accepted  as 
really  Dante's,  is  addressed  "to  Lord  Moroello, 
Marquis  of  Malaspina."  To  prove  what  ties  of 
gratitude  bind  the  servant  to  the  master,  and  to 
counteract  any  false  accusations  of  neglect,  the 
author  has  decided  to  bring  this  communication 
[118] 


EXPERIENCE 

before  His  Magnificence,  now  that  he  has  parted 
from  that  court  for  which  he  has  yearned  ever 
since.  The  letter  serves  as  a  preface  to  one  of 
Dante's  odes,  a  love-song  written  in  the  Casentino. 
On  the  mountain  of  Purgatory,  among  the  princely 
shades  waiting  in  a  dell,  there  is  a  member  of  this 
same  hospitable  and  valiant  family.  "  '  I  was 
called  Conrad  Malaspina,'  "  it  says.  "  '  I  am  not 
the  elder,  but  am  descended  from  him.  On  my 
own  people  I  bestowed  that  love  which  here  is 
being  purified.'  '  Oh  1  '  said  I  to  him,  '  never  have 
I  been  in  your  lands.  [This  was  in  1300.]  But 
where  in  all  Europe  do  men  dwell  who  know  them 
not?  The  fame  that  glorifies  your  house  pro- 
claims the  masters  and  proclaims  the  county,  so 
that  he  who  never  yet  was  there  hath  heard 
thereof.  And  I  swear  to  you,  as  I  hope  to  go  on 
high,  that  your  honored  clan  is  still  beautiful  with 
the  glory  of  purse  and  sword.  From  habit  and 
nature  it  hath  such  advantage  that,  however  the 
wicked  chief  may  twist  the  world  awry,  it  alone 
walketh  straight,  despising  the  wrongful  way.' ' 
Thereupon  the  spirit  prophesies  that  ere  seven 
years  be  gone,  Dante's  friendly  opinion  shall  be 
confirmed  by  experience. 

The  admiration  that  Dante  professes  for  such 
distant  courts  he  is  far  from  bestowing  on  Flor- 
ence or  the  neighboring  cities.  These  get  little 
but  the  hottest  invective.  His  burning  indigna- 
tion against  them  would  seem,  however,  to  be 
oftener  objective  than  personal,  kindled  by  hideous 
crimes  or  notorious  sins  of  their  inhabitants,  rather 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

than  by  injury  to  himself.  After  listening  to  the 
piteous  story  of  Count  Ugolino,  who  with  his  sons 
and  grandsons  was  left  by  the  Pisans  to  starve 
in  the  Hunger  Tower,  he  exclaims:  "Ah!  Pisa, 
accursed  of  the  peoples  of  that  fair  land  where 
si  resounds,  since  thy  neighbors  are  slow  to  punish 
thee,  let  [the  islands]  Capara  and  Gorgona  bestir 
themselves  and  make  a  dam  across  the  Arno's 
mouth,  that  it  may  drown  every  human  being 
within  thee !  "  The  godless  thief,  Vanni  Fucci, 
declares  in  Hell:  "A  beast  am  I,  and  Pistoia 
was  the  right  lair  for  me."  "Ah!  Pistoia, 
Pistoia,"  cries  Dante,  "  why  dost  thou  not  decree 
to  burn  thyself  to  ashes,  since  thou  dost  outstrip 
thine  own  seed  in  evil?"  The  sight  of  Branca 
d'  Oria,  the  traitor  and  murderer  from  Genoa, 
moves  the  poet  to  a  similar  apostrophe:  "Ah! 
Genoese,  strangers  to  all  morality,  full  of  all  cor- 
ruption, why  are  ye  not  scattered  from  earth?" 
Bologna  is  a  nest  of  panders,  Lucca  a  hotbed  of 
bribery.  A  devil  in  Hell  comes  rushing  down  to 
the  stream  of  boiling  pitch,  bearing  on  his  shoul- 
der an  official  from  the  latter  city.  "  From  our 
bridge  he  shouted:  'O  Badpaws,  here  is  one  of 
the  aldermen  of  Santa  Zita !  Shove  him  below ! 
I  am  going  back  for  more,  to  that  town  which  I 
have  abundantly  supplied  with  them.  Everyone 
there  is  a  grafter,  except  Bonturo.  There  you  can 
turn  no  into  yes  for  money.'  He  flung  the  sinner 
down,  and,  turning  back  over  the  rugged  ridge, 
was  swifter  than  a  mastiff  let  loose  on  a  thief. 
The  soul  plunged  under  [the  pitch],  and  came  up 

[  120] 


EXPERIENCE 

with  arched  back.  Whereat  the  demons,  beneath 
the  bridge,  shouted:  '  Here  is  no  place  to  pray  to 
the  Holy  Face !  The  swimming  is  not  like  the 
river  Serchio !  Therefore,  if  thou  likest  not  our 
hooks,  do  not  show  thyself  above  the  pitch!' 
Then  they  snapped  him  up  with  more  than  a  hun- 
dred prongs,  saying :  4  Here  all  the  dancing  is 
under  cover.  Do  thy  grabbing  unseen,  if  thou 
canst ! '  Even  so  do  cooks  bid  their  scullions  push 
the  meat  under,  with  their  forks,  in  the  middle 
of  the  pot,  to  keep  it  from  floating."  In  the  por- 
trayal of  these  mischievous  guardians,  wickeder 
than  the  criminals  they  torment,  and,  as  Dante  and 
Virgil  nearly  learn  to  their  cost,  quite  as  ready  to 
punish  the  innocent  as  the  guilty,  there  seems  to  be 
a  bit  of  personal  reminiscence;  for  in  them  the 
poet  probably  intended  to  picture  with  grim 
humor  the  unscrupulous  officials  of  Florence  who 
accused  him  of  dishonesty  and  condemned  him  to 
death  by  fire. 

Toward  Florence,  the  beautiful  ingrate,  Dante's 
feelings  were  mixed.  Florence  was  his  city,  his 
"pretty  fold,"  for  which  he  always  yearned;  yet 
Florence  was  foolish,  presumptuous,  fickle,  cruel, 
the  home  of  glib  and  shallow  politics.  Terrible 
are  his  repeated  denunciations  and  his  prophecies 
of  coming  retribution.  "  But  a  little  while  hence," 
he  cries,  "  thou  shalt  suffer  what  [thy  neighbor] 
Prato  wishes  thee  —  not  to  speak  of  others.  If 
it  had  already  happened,  it  would  be  none  too 
early.  Would  it  might  be  thus,  since  it  must  be ! 
For  it  will  be  the  harder  for  me  to  bear,  the  older 
[121] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

I  grow."  All  along  the  Arno,  declares  a  soul  in 
Purgatory,  from  its  mountain  source  to  its  mouth, 
"  virtue  is  shunned  as  a  foe  by  all  as  if  it  were  a 
snake,  either  because  of  some  ill  fortune  of  the 
place,  or  because  evil  custom  incites  them;  there- 
fore have  the  dwellers  in  that  wretched  valley  so 
changed  their  nature  that  one  would  think  Circe 
had  put  them  to  pasture."  The  people  of  the 
Casentino  are  ugly  swine,  fit  only  for  acorns;  the 
Aretines  are  curs,  who  snarl  louder  than  their 
strength  justifies;  the  Florentines  are  wolves;  the 
Pisans  foxes,  so  full  of  deceit  that  they  fear  no 
trap. 

From  the  wickedness  and  stupidity  of  men 
Dante  turned  for  comfort  to  the  perfect  goodness 
and  wisdom  of  God.  Always  of  a  genuinely  re- 
ligious bent,  he  became,  in  the  days  of  adversity, 
more  deeply  devout,  more  ardent  and  mystical 
in  his  aspiration.  With  intense  meditation  on 
things  divine,  came  unexpected  divine  illumination. 

Then  suddenly  did  day  redouble  day, 
Or  so  it  seemed,  as  if  the  One  who  can 
Had  bid  the  sky  a  second  sun  display. 

In  very  truth  Beatrice  might  have  said  to  him,  as 
she  cries  in  the  poem: 

Thou  art  not,  as  thou  thinkest,  down  on  earth ; 
For  lightning  never  left  its  native  sky 
So  swift  as  thou  dost  seek  thy  land  of  birth. 

Faithful  as  Dante  was,  and  eager  to  conform 
his  will  to  the  will  of  the  Almighty,  his  intellectual 
curiosity  and  his  positive,  logical  mind  made  it 
[  122  ] 


EXPERIENCE 

difficult  for  him  to  leave  a  mystery  unexplained. 
Theological  study  fascinated  him,  and  he  evi- 
dently found  in  it  satisfaction  for  most  of  his 
speculative  difficulties.  One  problem,  however, 
always  baffled  him  :  the  origin  of  imperfection.  At 
least,  although  he  returns  to  it  again  and  again, 
he  never  reaches  a  consistent  solution.  The  ma- 
terial world,  he  says,  is  defective  because,  being 
made  of  matter,  which  is  by  nature  imperfect,  it 
cannot  fully  realize  God's  perfect  idea.  This 
explanation  suffices  for  a  Platonist,  who  holds  that 
God  and  matter  are  coeternal,  but  not  for  a  Chris- 
tian, who  believes  —  and,  if  orthodox,  must  be- 
lieve—  that  matter  was  created  by  the  Lord. 
Indeed,  this  doctrine  of  the  creation  of  matter  is 
explicitly  stated  by  Dante,  who  affirms  also  that 
whatsoever  God  himself  has  made  is  perfect.  So 
we  are  left  where  we  were  in  the  first  place.  If  it 
were  possible  to  assume  that  matter  has  always 
existed,  we  might  argue  further  that,  not  being 
the  work  of  the  Creator,  it  is  inferior,  and  that 
whatsoever  is  fashioned  of  it  must  fall  short  of 
perfection.  But  this  assumption  is  heretical. 
Here  is  a  sore  temptation  for  a  philosopher, 
divided  between  his  faith  and  his  logic.  Dante 
himself,  as  he  tells  us  in  the  Banquet,  was  dis- 
turbed by  the  question  "whether  the  primal  mat- 
ter of  the  elements  was  conceived  by  God."  He 
decided  aright;  but  his  experience  enabled  him  to 
sympathize  with  those  minds  whose  acumen  and 
self-confidence  led  them  into  heresy.  The  heretics 
in  his  lower  world  are  tormented  but  not  despic- 

[  123  1 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

able.  One  of  the  poet's  most  impressive  figures  is 
Farinata  degli  Uberti,  who  amid  the  flames 
"  stands  with  brow  and  chest  erect,  as  if  he  held 
Hell  in  great  contempt."  In  his  Heaven  Dante 
places,  among  the  lights  of  theology,  two  men  of 
dubious,  or  more  than  dubious,  orthodoxy:  Joa- 
chim of  Calabria,  the  mystic  prophet;  and  the 
daringly  brilliant  philosopher  Sigier  of  Brabant, 
who  in  the  University  of  Paris  "  syllogized  in- 
vidious truths." 

Against  unbelief  he  was  fortified,  as  he  was 
saved  from  the  consequences  of  his  besetting  sins, 
by  divine  watchfulness,  for  which  he  never  could 
be  sufficiently  thankful.  A  special  debt  of  grati- 
tude he  bore  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  the  embodi- 
ment of  heavenly  mercy,  to  whom  he  so  often  and 
so  happily  appealed.  His  devotion  to  her  cer- 
tainly influenced  his  whole  conception  of  Beatrice, 
as  it  is  developed  in  the  Divina  Commedia. 
When  this  "  most  gentle  lady,"  —  about  to  answer 
a  really  simple  question  which  to  Dante  seems 
hopelessly  difficult,  —  when  Beatrice 

First  breathed  a  pitying  sigh,  then  sweet  and  mild 
Inclined  her  eyes  upon  me  with  the  look 
A  mother  gives  to  her  delirious  child, 

we  see  the  very  image  of  the  compassionate  Lady 
of  Heaven,  "the  Rose  in  which  the  divine  Word 
became  flesh"  —  "that  beauteous  flower,"  says 
the  poet,  "  on  which  I  always  call  at  morn  and 


eve. 

u  t 


Now  look,'  "  cries  St.  Bernard,  whom  Dante 
[124] 


EXPERIENCE 

finds  at  his  side  when  he  reaches  the  real  Paradise, 
'  now  look  into  the  face  that  is  most  like  Christ, 
for  its  brightness  alone  can  prepare  thee  to  see 
•  Christ.'  Over  her  I  saw  descending  such  a  shower 
of  gladness,  borne  by  the  holy  minds  [of  angels], 
created  to  flit  through  those  heights,  that  whatso- 
ever I  had  seen  before  did  not  hold  me  rapt  in 
such  amazement,  nor  reveal  to  me  such  likeness  of 
God."  To  her  the  saint  addresses  that  beautiful 
prayer  beginning 

Vergine  madre,  figlia  del  tuo  Figlio, 
Umile  ed  alta  ptu  che  creatura, 
Termine  fisso  d'  eterno  consiglio, 

which  continues  thus:  "Thy  kindness  not  only 
succors  him  who  asks,  but  ofttimes  freely  forestalls 
the  asking.  In  thee  is  mercy,  in  thee  piety,  in  thee 
magnificence,  in  thee  is  united  whatsoever  good- 
ness there  is  in  aught  created.  Now  this  man, 
who  from  the  lowest  pool  of  the  universe  as  far 
as  here  hath  beheld  the  spiritual  states  one  by 
one,  beseeches  thee,  in  thy  grace,  for  such  power 
that  his  eyes  may  lift  him  still  higher  toward  the 
Last  Weal.  And  I,  who  never  yearned  more 
hotly  for  my  own  sight  than  I  now  long  for  his, 
offer  thee  all  my  prayers — and  I  pray  they  be 
not  scant — that  thou,  with  thine  own  supplica- 
tions, melt  from  him  every  mist  of  his  mortality, 
until  the  Joy  Supreme  shall  be  revealed  to  him. 
Further  I  pray  thee,  O  Queen,  who  canst  do  thy 
will,  to  keep  his  desires  whole,  after  this  great 
vision.  Let  thy  watchfulness  overcome  his  human 

[125] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

impulses.  Lo !  Beatrice  and  all  the  blest  are 
clasping  their  hands  to  thee,  joining  in  my 
prayer!  " 

Those  eyes  which  God  doth  love  and  venerate, 
Upon  the  suppliant  bent,  revealed  to  us 
How  dear  to  her  are  those  who  supplicate. 


[126] 


LECTURE  V 
VISION 

"  O  IMAGINATION,"  cries  Dante,  "  which  at 
times  dost  so  abstract  us  from  the  outer  world 
that  a  man  heeds  it  not  though  a  thousand  trum- 
pets blare  about  him,  who  kindles  thee,  when  the 
sense  offers  thee  naught?  Art  thou  kindled  by 
a  light  that  takes  shape  in  Heaven,  either  by  itself 
or  by  a  will  which  directs  it  downward?"  Is  it 
a  chance  ray  from  the  stars,  or  is  it  the  mysterious 
purpose  of  the  Lord,  operating  through  their 
beams,  that  suddenly  flashes  a  picture  before  the 
mind's  eye?  Whether  the  gift  come  from  nature 
or  from  God,  it  is  in  some  measure  transmissible 
from  man  to  man.  The  poet  not  only  sees  visions 
but  has  the  power  of  clothing  them  in  words  and 
thus  communicating  them  to  others.  This  gift 
was  possessed  in  the  highest  degree  by  Dante. 
The  reading  of  his  poem  is  like  a  dream  of  magic 
pictures  —  pictures  clear  and  beautiful,  but  mo- 
mentary, crowding  one  another  in  their  swift, 
ceaseless  eddies,  while  the  deep  current  of  thought 
rolls  on  below.  For  most  readers  of  Dante  nowa- 
days, this  lightning  play  of  description  constitutes 
his  principal  charm. 

Not  a  few  of  his  sketches  are   evidently  sug- 

[127] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

gested  by  his  reading,  many  more  by  his  experience 
of  men  and  things ;  some  would  indeed  seem  to  have 
been  flashed  into  his  brain  by  the  stars.  Now  and 
again  we  find  a  scene,  drawn  by  him  in  his  own 
way,  but  born  of  a  general  impression  derived 
from  some  book  ancient  or  modern.  Virgil's 
Elysian  Fields  are  probably  the  prototype  both 
of  the  Noble  Castle,  —  which  shelters  the  great 
spirits  of  pagan  antiquity  in  Dante's  Limbus, 
shining  bright  and  peaceful  in  the  midst  of  the 
dark  air  a-quiver  with  sighs,  —  and  of  the  Valley 
of  the  Princes,  flowery  and  sweet  in  the  lap  of  the 
mountainside  of  Purgatory,  peopled  by  shades  of 
recent  rulers.  Dante's  Garden  of  Eden  is  made 
up  of  features  common  in  legend  —  trees,  flowers, 
birds,  streams  —  but  invested  with  new  loveliness 
by  Dante's  phrasing  and  with  new  interest  by  his 
introduction  of  the  sweet  maiden,  Matilda,  the 
embodiment  of  eternal  springtime.  It  is  one 
thing  to  say,  as  the  old  stories  do:  "There  did 
they  behold  wonderful  trees,  which  never  lost 
their  leaves;  and  marvelous  birds,  singing  songs 
not  heard  on  earth;  and  miraculous  flowers  cover- 
ing all  the  ground;  and  four  beautiful  rivers,"  and 
quite  another  thing  to  write  such  a  passage  as 
Dante's 

Vago  gia  di  cercar  dentro  e  dintorno 
La  divina  foresta  spessa  e  viva, 
Ch'  agli  occhi  temperava  il  nuovo  giorno, 

Senza  piu  aspettar,  lasciai  la  riva, 
Prendcndo  la  campagnn  lento  lento 
Su  per  lo  suol  che  d'  ogni  parte  oliva. 

[128] 


VISION 

Impatient  now  the  mysteries  to  spy 
Within  the  thick  and  lusty  forestland 
Which  screened  the  rising  sunshine  from  the  eye, 

Awaiting  naught  beside,  I  left  the  strand, 
Advancing  slowly,  slowly  'mid  the  trees 
O'er  turf  that  fragrance  breathed  on  every  hand. 

A  gentle  wind,  which,  never  changing,  flees 
Eternally,  was  blowing  on  my  brow, 
But  blowing  softly  as  the  softest  breeze ; 

And,  quick  to  quake,  the  leaves  on  every  bough 
In  that  direction  all  inclining  went 
Where  casts  its  shade  the  holy  mountain  now ; 

But  not  enough  from  their  uprightness  bent 
To  still  the  birds  that  in  the  tree-tops  stay 
All  fearless,  on  their  highest  art  intent. 

With  glad,  full-throated  song,  the  coming  day 
They  greeted  'mid  the  twigs  in  music  clear, 
While  rustling  leaves  accompanied  their  lay. 

Such  burden  we  from  branch  to  branch  may  hear 
Throughout  the  grove  of  pines  on  Chiassi's  shore, 
When  /Eolus  Scirocco  sends  anear. 

So  far  within  the  ancient  woodland's  core 
My  lingering  steps  had  carried  me  that  I 
The  spot  from  whence  I  came  could  see  no  more, 

When  lo !  a  brook  forbade  my  going  by, 

Which  toward  the  left,  with  tiny  ripples,  pried 
The  grass  which  all  along  its  bank  did  lie. 

The  purest  rill  that  runs  on  mountainside 

With  us,  would  some  uncleanness  seem  to  show 
Compared  to  that,  which  naught  doth  ever  hide, 

Tho'  shady,  O !  so  shady  it  doth  flow 

Beneath  undying  green,  which  not  a  ray 
Of  sun  or  moon  will  e'er  admit  below. 

My  feet  did  halt,  and  yet  mine  eyes  did  stray 
Beyond  the  streamlet,  gazing,  wondering 
At  all  the  fresh  and  varied  gifts  of  May; 

And  then  appeared  to  me,  —  as  doth  a  thing 
Which  unexpectedly  its  face  hath  shown 

[  I29  1 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Make  for  amazement  every  thought  take  wing,  — 
A  lady  walking  through  the  field  alone, 

Singing  and  plucking,  choosing  flower  from  flower 
Amid  the  tints  wherewith  her  path  was  strewn. 

Hell,  as  well  as  Eden,  has  its  traditions.  In 
other  visions  of  the  lower  world,  as  in  Dante's, 
there  is  a  graded  immersion  in  ice;  but  there  are 
no  "  faces  grinning  doglike,"  and  the  author  does 
not  "  forever  afterwards  shudder  at  the  sight  of 
frozen  pools."  In  the  apocryphal  Vision  of  St. 
Paul  there  are  murderers  plunged  to  different 
depths  in  a  fiery  river;  but  we  miss  the  "shrill 
shrieks  of  the  boiled  "  as  we  walk  "  along  the 
edge  of  the  boiling  red."  Brother  Alberico  speaks 
of  a  fiery  breath  blowing  spirits  before  it;  but  it 
is  an  unpoetic  breath,  with  no  suggestion  of  "  star- 
lings borne  along  by  their  wings,  in  cold  weather, 
in  a  broad,  close  array  "  nor  of  "  dirge-singing 
cranes  making  a  long  streak  of  themselves  in  the 
air,"  and  it  does  not  blow  in  a  place  "  dumb  of  all 
light." 

Now  I  begin  the  doleful  notes  to  hear 
Not  far  away  from  me,  for  I  am  come 
Where  cries  of  grief  abounding  smite  mine  ear. 

The  place  I  reach,  of  every  light  is  dumb, 
And  bellows  like  the  storm-tormented  main 
When  warring  winds  on  ocean's  surface  drum. 

The  never-ceasing  hellish  hurricane 

Sweeps  on  the  spirits  in  its  circling  swirl, 
Turning  and  clashing  them  in  endless  pain. 

Oftener  than  a  whole  scene,  it  is  some  rapid 
little  sketch  that  stirs  Dante's  fancy  and  moves 
him  to  free  imitation.  Such  is  the  landslip  de- 

[  130] 


VISION 

scribed  by  Albertus  Magnus  and  added  by  our 
poet  to  the  topography  of  Hell:  "That  slide 
which  smote  the  flank  of  Adige,  slipping  down 
from,  the  mountaintop  in  such  fashion  as  to  afford 
a  sort  of  path  to  anyone  who  might  be  above." 
Such  the  little  boat,  which,  both  in  Virgil's  lower 
world  and  in  Dante's,  feels  the  unaccustomed 
weight  of  a  human  body,  and  "  cuts  deeper  into 
the  water  than  is  its  habit."  Such  is  the  figure 
of  David,  dancing  "with  all  his  might"  before 
the  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  and  his  wife  "  Michal 
Saul's  daughter,"  who  "  looked  through  a  window, 
and  saw  king  David  leaping  and  dancing  before 
the  Lord,  and  .  .  .  despised  him  in  her  heart." 
Such  is  Satan,  falling  "  as  lightning  from  heaven." 
Frequently,  as  in  this  last  case,  it  is  one  word  or 
brief  phrase  that  has  stamped  itself  on  the  poet's 
imagination.  If,  in  Statius's  Thebaid,  the  "  fat 
clouds"  had  not  obstructed  Mercury's  progress, 
Dante's  angel,  who  comes  to  his  rescue  before  the 
City  of  Dis,  walking  dryshod  over  the  Styx,  would 
not  be  "  fanning  from  his  face  the  fat  air,  busily 
swinging  his  left  hand  before  him."  If  the  book 
of  Great  Derivations,  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
dictionary  that  our  poet  knew,  had  not  given  to 
the  word  hypocrite  the  fantastic  etymology  super- 
auratns,  "  gilded  outside,"  the  "  whited  sepul- 
chers  "  in  Dante's  Hell  might  have  escaped  the 
punishment  of  crushing  leaden  cloaks,  covered 
with  gold  externally.  We  wonder  why  Dante's 
giants  are  placed,  not  with  those  who  did  violence 
to  God,  but  far  below,  around  the  mouth  of  the 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

last  pit  of  Hell  —  until  we  recall  Virgil's  words 
in  the  ^Eneid:  "Here  that  ancient  race  of  earth, 
the  Titan  brood,  struck  down  by  the  thunderbolt, 
roll  in  the  lowest  depth"  The  Griffin  in  Dante's 
Garden  of  Eden,  the  creature  of  two  natures, 
which  symbolizes  Christ,  has  "  limbs  of  gold,  in 
so  far  as  it  is  bird,  and  the  rest  of  white  mixed 
with  red,"  even  as  the  "beloved"  in  Solomon's 
Song,  who  is  also  a  symbol  of  Christ,  "  is  white 
and  ruddy,"  and  "  his  head  is  as  the  most  fine 
gold."  Lucan  tells  of  flocks  of  cranes,  which, 
"  as  chance  directs,  shape  various  patterns,"  but 
"  when  the  wings  are  dispersed,  the  broken  letter 
fades;  "  and  so  the  bright  souls  in  Dante's  Heaven 
of  Jupiter,  —  "like  birds  which  rise  from  a  river- 
bank  and,  as  if  rejoicing  together  in  their  feast, 
make  themselves  now  into  a  ring,  now  into  some 
other  figure,  —  flitted  singing,  and  took  the  form 
now  of  D,  now  of  I,  now  of  L,  first  tuneful  and 
moving  to  their  own  music,  then,  having  turned 
into  one  of  these  letters,  lingering  a  little  while 
in  silence:  "  thus  they  spell  the  sentence  from  the 
Book  of  Wisdom,  "  Diligite  justitiam,  qui  judi- 
catis  terram,"  "  Love  justice,  ye  that  be  judges  of 
the  earth."  On  the  shore  of  Dante's  lonely  island, 
it  is  just  before  sunrise,  on  Easter  Sunday,  that 

The  dawn  was  driving  out  the  early  breeze, 
Which  ran  so  quick  ahead  that  far  from  shore 
I  recognized  the  rippling  of  the  seas  ; 

but  Virgil's  "  sea  that  gleams  beneath  a  quiver- 
ing light"  is  a  nocturne.  A  troubadour,  Bernart 
de  Ventadorn,  once  sang  thus  of  the  lark: 

[  132] 


VISION 

The  little  lark  that  full  of  mirth 
Up,  up  the  sunbeam  winged  her  way 

Forgets  herself  and  drops  to  earth, 
With  heart  enraptured  by  her  lay. 

The  same  bird,  in  the  Divine  Comedy,  is  tuneful, 
then  silent,   like  her  Provencal  prototype : 

The  little  lark  that  singing,  soaring  went 
Is  silent  now,  and  craveth  naught  beside 
The  last  sweet  note  which  made  her  heart  content. 

Our  poet's  elderly  counselor,  Brunetto  Latini, 
following  a  line  of  naturalists  modern  and  ancient, 
describes  in  his  Tresor  an  Indian  monster  called 
Manticore,  which  has  a  man's  face,  a  lion's  body, 
a  scorpion's  tail,  and  eats  human  flesh.  This 
animal,  with  a  suggestion  from  the  man-faced  and 
scorpion-tailed  locusts  of  the  Apocalypse,  became, 
in  Dante's  hands,  the  dragon  Geryon,  genius  of 
fraud,  which  comes  floating  up  through  the  air 
at  the  edge  of  the  abyss. 

"  Behold  the  creature  with  the  pointed  tail, 

Which  crosses  mountains,  shatters  plate  and  wall  — 
The  one  whose  stench  makes  all  the  world  to  ail." 

These  words  to  me  my  guide  begins  to  call ; 

Then  bids  the  beast  ashore,  with  beckoning  hand, 
Hard  by  the  dike  whereon  our  footsteps  fall. 

That  image  foul  of  Fraud  then  came  to  land, 
And  beacht  upon  the  brink  its  head  and  breast, 
But  never  drew  its  tail  upon  the  strand. 

Its  face  was  like  a  man's,  and  of  the  best 
(Benevolence  its  skin  did  never  quit), 
But  serpentlike  its  trunk  and  all  the  rest; 

Two  paws  and  arms,  all  hairy  to  the  pit. 

With  shapes  of  knots  and  little  rings  were  lined 
Its  back  and  sides  and  belly,  every  bit. 

[  133  ] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

More  colors  ne'er  did  Turk  or  Tartar  wind, 
Nor  paint  the  warp  and  woof  of  carpet  more; 
Arachne  such  a  pattern  ne'er  designed. 

As  skiffs  at  times  are  left  projecting  o'er, 
Partly  in  water,  partly  in  their  place,  — 
As  yonder,  on  the  greedy  Teutons'  shore, 

The  beaver  takes  his  seat,  the  fish  to  chase,  — 
E'en  thus  did  that  disgusting  beast  depend 
From  off  the  rock  that  doth  the  sand  encase. 

In  empty  space  its  wriggling  tail  did  bend, 
Twisting  on  high  the  poison-laden  fork 
Which,  scorpion-fashion,  armed  its  very  end. 

On  the  back  of  this  monster  Dante  and  Virgil 
descend  into  the  pit. 

Upon  those  ugly  shoulders  I  alight, 

And  try  to  say  —  but  utterance  never  came 
As  I  expected :  "  See  thou  hold  me  tight !  " 

When  I  was  mounted,  he  (the  very  same 
Who  oft  in  danger  held  me  safe  and  fast) 
With  clasping  arms  sustained  my  frightened  frame. 

"  Now,  Geryon,"  he  cried,  "  set  forth  at  last! 
Retard  thy  fall,  thy  spiral  course  expand. 
Remember  what  a  novel  load  thou  hast !  " 

Just  as  a  parting  skiff  is  pusht  from  land 

And  backs  and  backs,  thus  Geryon  withdraws; 
Then,  finding  empty  space  on  every  hand, 

He  turns  his  tail  where  erst  his  bosom  was, 
Stretches  it  out,  and  wriggles  like  an  eel, 
And  paddling  pulls  the  air  with  both  his  paws. 

No  greater  fear  did  Phaethon  once  feel 

When,  losing  Phoebus'  reins,  he  baked  the  sky, 
As  all  the  Milky  Way  doth  still  reveal,  — 

Nor  Icarus,  when  heat  did  liquefy 

The  wax,  and  pluckt  the  pinions  from  his  back, 
His  father  shrieking:  "  Badly  dost  thou  fly,"  — 

Than  mine  is  now,  perceiving  that  our  track 
Lies  only  thro'  the  air,  where  nothing  shows, 

[134] 


VISION 

Beside  the  beast,  but  one  unbroken  black. 
Slowly  the  creature  smoothly  swimming  goes  ; 

And  naught  betrays  his  round  descending  crawl, 

Except  a  gentle  wind  which  upward  blows. 
Now  on  my  right  I  hear  the  waterfall 

Make  under  us  a  terrifying  din  ; 

So  I  project  my  eyes  with  head  and  all. 
But  seeing  fires  and  hearing  wails  begin, 

More  timidly  the  monster  I  bestride 

And,  all  a-quiver,  draw  my  body  in. 
And  now  I  mark  our  circling  downward  ride, 

Unseen  before,  at  last  revealed  to  sight 

By  torments  pressing  near  on  every  side. 
As  falcon,  after  long  and  fruitless  flight, 

Uncalled  by  lure  or  bird,  doth  downward  start, 

The  while  his  owner  sighs:  "  Thou  wilt  alight," 
Wearily  stoops,  whose  going  was  so  smart, 

Wheeling  a  hundred  times,  and,  cross  and  fell, 

Far  from  his  master  perches  all  apart, 
So  Geryon  alighted  there  in  Hell, 

Beneath  the  ragged  rock's  enfolding  ring. 

His  passengers  unloaded  in  the  well, 
He  sped  away  like  arrow-notch  from  string. 

[From  Dante,  pp.  356-357.] 

And  all  this  mixture  of  stupendous  fancy  and  vivid 
realism  owes  its  inception  to  a  terse,  prosaic  de- 
scription of  a  preposterous  animal  by  a  parcel  of 
"  nature-fakers." 

One  of  these,  Brunetto  Latini,  at  the  beginning 
of  his  allegorical  Tesoretto,  relates  that  he 
"  strayed  in  a  strange  wood."  You  all  know  what 
grew  out  of  that  haunting  phrase: 

Nel  mezzo  del  cammin  di  nostra  vita 
Mi  ritrovai  per  una  selva  oscura, 
Che  la  diritta  via  era  smarrita. 

[135] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Midway  along  the  road  that  mortals  go 
I  found  myself  within  a  forest  drear, 
From  off  the  pathway  I  had  wandered  so. 

Ah !  what  a  tearful  thing  to  tell  is  here  — 
This  rough  and  wild  and  woody  wilderness, 
Which,  even  at  the  thought,  renews  my  fear! 

So  bitter  't  is  that  death  is  nearly  less ! 

But  I  the  good  which  there  I  found  would  say, 
And  so  the  other  sights  I  must  confess. 

I  cannot  rightly  tell  what  made  me  stray, 
So  full  was  I  of  sleep  precisely  then 
WThen  I  forsook  the  veritable  way. 

For  his  description  of  the  earth  and  other 
bodies,  as  viewed  from  the  constellation  of 
Gemini,  Dante  had  a  more  extensive  model  in 
the  "  Dream  of  Scipio  "  in  Cicero's  Republic. 
Like  Dante,  the  young  Scipio  finds  in  heaven  a 
great  ancestor,  a  warrior;  and  both  dreamers 
look  back  through  space.  Yet  really,  aside  from 
the  general  situation,  the  two  accounts  have  little 
in  common.  Cicero  was  a  moralist,  Dante  a 
poet.  "Gaze  down,"  says  Beatrice,  "and  see 
how  much  world  I  have  already  brought  under 
thy  feet." 

With  that  I  turned  and  downward  peered  a  while 
Through  all  the  seven  spheres,  and  saw  the  earth 
So  small,  its  cheap  appearance  made  me  smile. 

He  sees  the  upper  surface  of  the  moon,  which 
has  no  spots;  he  sees  the  sun  and,  close  to  it, 
Mercury  and  Venus;  he  sees  Jupiter  between 
Mars  and  Saturn;  and  comprehends  their  varying 
orbits. 

[136] 


VISION 

Then  showed  to  me  the  seven,  star  by  star, 
How  big  they  be,  how  rapid  is  their  flight, 
And  how  unthinkably  remote  they  are. 

The  little  plot  for  which  we  fiercely  fight, 
As  I  was  turning  with  the  deathless  Twins, 
All  met,  from  hills  to  river-mouths,  my  sight. 

"  Lower  thine  eyes  again,"  says  Beatrice,  after 
an  interval,  "  and  see  how  thou  hast  revolved." 
His  revolution  with  Gemini  has  described  an  arc 
of  90°:  on  one  side,  beyond  Cadiz,  is  the  "mad 
course  of  Ulysses  "  over  the  Atlantic;  on  the  other, 
the  Phoenician  shore,  whence  Europa  departed  on 
the  bull's  back.  More  of  the  earth's  surface  he 
could  have  seen,  had  the  part  lighted  by  the  sun 
exactly  coincided  with  his  field  of  vision;  but  that 
was  not  the  case,  the  poet  being  in  Gemini  and 
the  sun  in  Aries  —  or,  as  he  puts  it,  "the  sun, 
beneath  my  feet,  was  ahead,  more  than  a  con- 
stellation away."  Now  of  all  this  clearly  con- 
ceived and  fascinating  detail  there  is  virtually 
nothing  in  Cicero:  at  most,  a  phrase  of  his  may 
have  suggested  Dante's  "  hills  and  river  mouths." 
It  was  Dante's  habit,  when  he  borrowed,  to 
contribute  much  more  than  he  took.  His  famous 
simile  of  the  "  mother-doves,  at  affection's  call, 
returning  through  the  air  to  the  dear  nest,  with 
wings  outspread  and  still,  carried  by  their  desire," 
was  suggested,  to  be  sure,  by  some  lines  in  the 
^Eneid;  but  Virgil's  dove  has  in  common  with 
Dante's  only  the  motionless  wings:  she  is  flying 
away  from  her  nest,  not  towards  it,  nor  is  she 
"carried  by  desire"  —which,  of  course,  is  the 

[  137  ] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

feature  that  lends  the  little  picture  its  supreme 
distinction.  Similarly,  our  poet's  "  autumn  leaves 
which  drop  one  by  one  until  the  branch  beholds 
all  its  garments  on  the  ground  "  owes  to  Virgil 
only  the  dropping  leaves,  the  pathetic  fancy  of 
the  stripped  branch  being  Dante's  invention. 
Boethius  once  wrote  of  the  "  rivers  Tigris  and 
Euphrates  breaking  from  a  single  spring,  and 
then,  with  severed  waters,  parting  company." 
And  in  Dante's  Garden  of  Eden  there  are  two 
streams  issuing  from  one  source,  which  remind 
the  author  of  the  classic  rivers: 

Euphrates  I,  and  Tigris,  seemed  to  see 
From  out  a  single  fountain  gushing  there 
And  parting,  like  two  friends,  unwillingly. 

Here  again  the  human  touch  is  the  work  of  the 
later  poet. 

In  the  transformations  which  go  on  in  Dante's 
snake-pit,  —  where  Ovid  is  his  model,  —  the  ele- 
ment that  is  added  is  not  sympathy  but  horror. 
The  hletamorphoses  tells  of  two  bodies  growing 
together  into  one,  but  the  way  of  telling  is  curious, 
even  pretty,  rather  than  awful,  with  its  "  ivies 
entwining  the  tall  tree-trunks"  and  its  "mixture 
of  two  bodies  fusing,  and  a  single  face  spreading 
over  them  both."  Look  at  the  other  picture. 
Dante  and  Virgil  are  gazing  down  into  a  ditch 
where  thieves  are  punished;  a  group  of  three 
human  figures  gathers  at  the  bottom  of  the  bank; 
and  Dante,  hearing  the  name  of  one  of  the  sinners 
pronounced  by  chance,  lays  his  finger  across  his 

[138] 


VISION 

lips,  "  from  nose  to  chin,"  to  solicit  Virgil's  at- 
tentive silence. 

If,  reader,  thou  be  tardy  to  admit 

What  I  shall  tell,  't  will  be  no  great  surprise, 
For  I,  who  saw  it,  scarce  believe  in  it. 

As  I  was  staring  dowTn  with  all  my  eyes, 
A  snake  six-footed  grabs  a  man  and  flings 
Itself  all  over  him  and  firmly  ties; 

Its  middle  feet  around  the  belly  brings, 

And  with  its  forward  ones  the  arms  doth  seize, 
And  both  the  cheeks  with  fangs  extended  stings. 

Its  hinder  feet  embrace  the  thighs  and  knees. 
Goes  crawling  up,  along  the  back,  its  tail, 
Thrust  in  between  the  legs  with  piercing  squeeze. 

Never  so  tight  on  tree  did  ivy  trail 

As  twines  the  hideous  beast,  whose  clutches  pin 
Monster  to  man,  and  limb  to  member  nail. 

Like  melting  wax,  they  mingle,  skin  to  skin  ; 
The  face  of  one  the  other's  color  learns. 
Now  neither  looks  like  what  it  once  has  been : 

As  up  a  piece  of  paper,  when  it  burns, 

A  sort  of  brownish  tint  precedes  the  flame, 
And  neither  white  nor  black  the  color  turns. 

The  other  spirits  watch,  and  both  exclaim : 
"  Agncllo,  thou  'st  become  a  thing  unknown, 
Nor  one  nor  two,  nor  other  nor  the  same!  " 

Two  heads  already  into  one  had  grown  ; 
Two  faces,  dual  now  no  more,  combined, 
Fusing  their  features,  into  one  alone. 

Four  strips  into  a  pair  of  arms  entwined, 

Belly  and  chest  and  thighs  and  shins  and  face 
Became  such  parts  as  nature  ne'er  designed. 

Remained  of  former  likeness  not  a  trace: 

Both  two  and  none  the  gruesome  figure  seemed. 
And  then  the  thing  moved  on,  with  sluggish  pace. 

Carved  in  marble,  in  Dante's  Purgatory,  is  the 
story  of  the  humility  and  the  justice  of  the  Em- 

[  139] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

peror  Trajan,  an  incident  which  the  poet  found, 
much  as  he  relates  it,  in  medieval  legend. 

'T  is  Emperor  Trajan's  form  that  next  appears, 
And,  near  his  rein,  a  widow  in  distress, 
Whose  attitude  betokens  grief  and  tears. 

And  all  around  him  horsemen  crowd  and  press 
And  eagles  wrought  in  gold,  on  banners  tall, 
Are  flapping  in  the  wind  (the  eye  would  guess). 

The  mourner  seems  to  say,  among  them  all : 
"  My  heart  is  broken,  for  my  son  is  slain. 
For  punishment,  my  Lord,  on  you  I  call !  " 

"  Now  wait  a  bit  till  I  return  again," 
He  answers.    "  O  my  Lord,"  she  seems  to  moan, 
As  one  impatient  from  insistent  pain, 

"  If  you  return  not?  "    "  He  who  holds  the  throne 
Shall  do  thee  justice."     "  What  shall  profit  you 
Another's  justice,  who  forget  your  own?" 

"  Be  comforted,"  he  cries,  "  for  I  must  do 
My  duty  ere  I  take  another  step. 
Not  only  justice  calls,  but  pity,  too." 

In  this  instance,  Dante's  source  was  religious 
and  popular.  More  frequently,  however,  the 
spark  that  fires  his  imagination  comes  from  the 
classics  —  oftenest  from  Virgil,  Ovid,  Lucan,  or 
Statius.  These  suggestions  from  the  Latin  poets 
are  most  apparent  in  the  Hell,  least  in  the  Para- 
dise. 

Now  let  us  drop  all  the  cases  in  which  there 
seems  to  be,  however  remote,  a  literary  model. 
We  have  seen,  even  in  the  partially  imitative  ex- 
amples hitherto  considered,  how  abundant  are 
Dante's  own  resources.  He  was  a  dreamer,  to 
be  sure;  but  he  was  also,  like  Theophile  Gautier, 
a  man  for  whom  the  outer  world  exists.  And  it 

[  HO] 


VISION 

existed,  for  him,  in  no  vague,  indeterminate  shape, 
"  without  form  and  void,"  but  clear  in  construc- 
tion, precise  in  outline,  vivid  in  color,  quick  in 
meaning.  When  he  looked  at  nature  or  at  man, 
his  eye,  like  that  of  a  Japanese  artist,  caught  the 
salient,  peculiar  traits,  and  stored  them  in  a  mem- 
ory which  let  nothing  fade.  A  touch  or  two,  and 
the  whole  likeness  is  revived  in  his  mind  and  con- 
veyed to  ours.  Keen  observation  of.  reality  is 
characteristic  of  the  Italians,  and  still  more  so  is 
the  habit  of  stating  experience,  physical  or  mental, 
in  terms  of  things  seen  —  of  attaching  a  visual 
image  to  the  idea  or  the  phrase.  At  times,  Dante 
names  the  places  whence  his  mental  pictures  came. 
The  conduit  running  across  the  fiery  desert  in 
Hell  is  compared  to  the  dikes  built  by  the  Paduans 
along  the  Brenta,  to  protect  them  against  flood 
when  the  snows  melt  on  the  mountains.  The 
uncanny  wood  of  the  suicides  is  a  development  of 
the  image  of  the  wild  Maremma,  in  Tuscany,  be- 
tween Cecina  and  Corneto. 

'  We  came  meanwhile,"  he  says,  in  the  Pur- 
gator'w,  "to  the  foot  of  a  mountain;  here  we  found 
the  cliff  so  steep  that  legs  would  have  there  been 
agile  to  no  purpose.  Between  Lend  and  Turbia 
[along  the  Italian  Riviera,  Turbia  being  just 
above  Monte  Carlo]  the  loneliest,  most  deserted 
path  is  a  plain  and  easy  stairway,  compared  to 
this." 

Here  we  have  a  scene  from  home:  "  The  angel 
led  us  to  a  spot  where  the  precipice  was  cut;  then 
waved  his  wing  over  my  brow,  and  promised  me  a 

[Hi] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

safe  journey.  The  bank,  which  comes  down 
abruptly  from  the  terrace  above,  is  eased  here  — 
just  as,  on  the  right,  to  climb  the  hill  where  sits 
the  church  [of  S.  Miniato]  (overlooking  the  well- 
governed  city  [Florence]  beyond  the  Rubaconte 
bridge),  the  bold  sweep  of  the  ascent  is  broken 
by  stairs,"  made  in  the  good  old  days  when  men 
were  honest. 

It  is  altogether  likely  that  the  poet  was  in  Rome, 
with  countless  hosts  of  other  strangers,  in  1300, 
the  year  of  the  great  papal  jubilee.  At  any  rate 
he  tells  us  how,  in  this  emergency,  the  Romans,  to 
prevent  a  block  on  the  crowded  bridge  of  Sant'An- 
gelo,  hit  upon  the  plan  of  making  people  turn 
to  the  right  Two  files  of  sinners,  in  Hell,  are 
moving  in  opposite  directions,  "  as  the  Romans, 
on  account  of  the  enormous  throng,  in  the  jubilee 
year,  found  an  expedient  to  get  people  over  the 
bridge;  for  on  one  side  they  all  have  their  faces 
toward  the  Castle  [of  Sant'  Angelo]  and  are 
going  to  St.  Peter's,  while  on  the  other  edge  they 
are  going  toward  the  hill." 

Portraying  a  cleft  full  of  boiling  pitch,  in  which 
grafters  get  their  due,  Dante  recalls  the  Arsenal 
of  Venice,  famous  throughout  Europe  for  many 
centuries.  "  As  in  the  Arsenal  of  the  Venetians, 
in  wintertime,  the  tenacious  pitch  is  boiling,  to 
coat  their  unsound  craft,  —  for  they  cannot  navi- 
gate, and,  instead,  one  is  building  a  new  boat,  one 
is  calking  the  sides  of  a  vessel  that  has  made  many 
a  trip,  one  is  hammering  at  stem,  one  at  stern,  one 
is  making  oars,  one  twisting  ropes,  another  patch- 

[142] 


VISION 

ing  foresail  or  mainsail,  —  thus,  not  with  fire  but 
by  divine  contrivance,  thick  pitch  was  boiling  down 
below,  and  making  either  bank  all  sticky." 

The  poets  have  to  climb  up  a  great  cliff  through 
a  narrow  crevice  in  the  rock:  "  Ofttimes,  in  the 
season  when  his  grapes  are  ripening,  the  farmer 
hedges  up  with  a  single  pitchforkful  of  his  briars 
a  wider  breach  in  his  fence  than  was  the  passage 
through  which  my  leader,  and  I  after  him, 
mounted  alone,  when  the  company  had  left  us. 
Men  scramble  up  to  San  Leo,  men  get  down  to 
Noli,  men  scale  the  summit  of  Bismantova,  with 
their  own  feet;  but  here  a  man  has  to  fly  —  I 
mean,  fly  with  the  feathers  and  swift  wings  of 
great  eagerness,  following  that  guide  who  gave 
me  hope  and  light.  Up  we  climbed  through  the 
split  rock,  squeezed  by  the  wall  on  either  side ;  and 
the  footing  below  called  for  both  hands  and  legs. 
When  we  had  emerged  on  the  upper  rim  of  the 
tall  precipice,  on  the  open  ledge,  '  Master,'  said 
I,  '  which  way  shall  we  go?  ' 

Another  ascent  through  another  crack  —  this 
time  at  the  entrance  to  Purgatory  —  evokes  no 
explicit  local  reminiscence:  "We  were  going  up 
through  a  rifted  rock,  in  a  cleft  that  turned  to  this 
side  and  to  that,  like  a  wave  advancing  and  re- 
treating. '  Here  we  must  use  some  skill,'  began 
my  leader,  '  in  clinging,  now  here,  now  there,  to 
the  wall  that  recedes.'  And  this  made  our  steps 
so  slow  that  the  waning  moon  reached  her  bed, 
to  lie  down  again,  before  we  were  out  of  that 
needle's  eye.  But  when  at  last  we  were  free  in 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

the  open,  above,  where  the  mountainside  draws 
back,  —  I  -weary,  and  both  of  us  doubtful  about 
our  way,  —  we  stopped  on  a  flat  place,  more  soli- 
tary than  roads  through  deserts.  From  the  edge 
that  borders  the  void  to  the  foot  of  the  high  bank, 
which  goes  straight  up,  is  perhaps  three  times  the 
length  of  a  human  body;  and  as  far  as  my  sight 
could  fly,  first  to  the  left  side,  then  to  the  right, 
this  shelf  looked  to  me  just  the  same." 

Higher  up  on  the  mountain  the  travelers  are 
enveloped  in  a  thick  cloud  of  smoke,  which  calls 
up  the  picture  of  Alpine  mists:  ''Remember, 
reader,  —  if  ever  in  the  Alps  a  fog  has  caught 
thee,  through  which  thou  couldst  see  no  better 
than  a  mole  sees  through  its  filmy  eye,  —  remem- 
ber how,  when  the  thick,  wet  vapors  begin  to  grow 
thinner,  the  djsk  of  the  sun  feebly  shows  through 
them,  and  thy  fancy  will  quickly  come  to  see  how 
I  first  beheld  the  sun  again,  just  as  it  was  on  the 
point  of  setting." 

Down  on  the  damp,  breezy  shore,  the  rushes 
grow,  close  to  the  sea:  "This  little  isle,  round 
about  its  lowest  edge,  down  yonder  where  the 
waves  plash,  bears  rushes  on  the  soft  ooze.  No 
other  plant,  that  puts  forth  leaves  or  hardens,  can 
live  there,  because  it  yields  not  to  the  gusts." 
There  it  is  that  the  dew  is  slowest  to  evaporate : 
'  We  were  walking  over  the  lonely  flatland,  like 
one  who  is  going  back  to  his  lost  path,  and,  until 
he  reaches  it,  thinks  he  is  moving  to  no  purpose. 
When  we  had  come  to  a  spot  where  the  dew  con- 
tends with  the  sunshine,  and,  being  in  a  cool  place, 

[  H4] 


VISION 

is  little  rarified,  my  master  gently  laid  both  his 
hands,  wide  open,  on  the  grass." 

In  the  following  description  of  a  waterfall,  we 
find  once  more  a  specific  locality:  "  I  was  follow- 
ing him;  and  we  had  gone  but  a  little  way  when 
the  noise  of  the  water  was  so  close  that,  had  we 
spoken,  we  could  scarcely  have  heard  each  other. 
Even  as  the  first  river  that  has  a  course  of  its  own 
to  the  east  from  Monviso,  on  the  left  slope  of  the 
Apennines  (called  Acquacheta  above,  before  com- 
ing down  into  its  low  bed,  but  bereft  of  that  name 
at  Forli),  even  as  this  river  reverberates  there 
above  St.  Benedict's  in  the  Alps, — because  it 
shoots  down  a  singk  fall  instead  of  being  divided 
into  a  thousand,  —  thus,  falling  over  a  precipi- 
tous bank,  we  found  that  dark  water  reechoing  so 
loud  that  in  a  little  while  it  would  have  hurt  the 
ear." 

Effective  use  is  made  by  Dante,  in  Purgatory, 
of  his  shadow,  which  differentiates  him  from  the 
disembodied  inhabitants  and  also  from  Virgil, 
his  companion.  In  Hell  it  was  too  dark  for  the 
souls  to  see  whether  he  cast  a  shadow  or  not;  but 
in  Purgatory,  in  the  daytime,  his  opaqueness  can- 
not escape  notice.  First  of  all,  Dante  himself  is 
startled,  —  at  sunrise,  as  he  and  his  master  are 
standing  side  by  side,  with  their  backs  to  the  east, 
—  to  see  only  one  shadow  cast  before  them  :  "  The 
light  of  the  sun,  which  was  flaming  ruddy  behind 
us,  was  broken,  in  front  of  me,  in  the  shape  which 
the  stoppage  of  its  rays  found  in  me.  I  turned  to 
one  side,  fearing  I  was  forsaken,  when  I  saw  the 

[H5] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

earth  darkened  in  front  of  me  alone.  And  my 
comforter  said:  'Why  art  thou  distrustful?' 
Here  he  turned  quite  around  towards  me:  '  Dost 
thou  not  believe  that  I  am  with  thee,  guiding 
thee?' 

Presently  the  souls  on  the  mountainside  take 
notice  of  Dante's  shade :  "  I  had  already  left  these 
ghosts,  and  was  following  my  leader's  footprints, 
when  one  of  them  shouted  behind  me,  lifting  up 
his  finger:  '  Look!  the  sunbeam  does  not  seem  to 
shine  on  the  left  of  that  lower  figure,  and  he  seems 
to  act  like  a  living  man!  '  I  turned  my  eyes,  at 
the  sound  of  this  speech,  and  saw  them  staring  in 
amazement  at  me,  at  me  alone,  and  at  the  broken 
light.  '  Why,'  said  my  master,  '  is  thy  mind  so 
caught  that  thou  slackenest  thy  gait?  What  mat- 
ters it  to  thee  what  they  whisper  here?'  .  .  . 
Meanwhile  across  the  slope,  a  little  ahead  of  us, 
a  crowd  was  singing  Miserere  in  alternation. 
When  they  saw  that  I,  with  my  body,  did  not  give 
way  to  the  passage  of  the  rays,  they  changed  their 
song  into  a  long,  hoarse  'Oh!'  And  two  of 
them,  after  the  fashion  of  messengers,  ran  to  meet 
us,  and  questioned  us.  '  Let  us  know  what  ye 
are!' 

As  Dante  walks  along  the  outer  edge  of  the 

path,  on  the  brink  of  the  cliff,  to  keep  clear  of  a 

mass  of  fire  that  juts  out  over  most  of  the  way, 

his  shadow,  falling  on  the  yellow  flame,  turns  it 

red;  and  a  crowd  of  souls,  marching  in  the  blaze, 

observe    his    presence   by    this    change    of   color: 

'  While  we  were  proceeding  thus  along  the  rim, 

[146] 


VISION 

one  by  one,  and  my  kind  master  kept  saying, 
'  Take  heed,  mind  my  warning,'  the  sun  was  shin- 
ing on  my  right  shoulder,  for  already  its  radiance 
was  turning  all  the  west  from  azure  to  white;  and 
I  was  making  the  flame  look  ruddier  with  my 
shadow,  and  even  at  that  slight  hint  I  saw  many 
spirits  take  notice,  as  they  went  by.  Thus  it  was 
that  they  began  to  speak  of  me;  for  they  went  on 
to  say  to  one  another:  'This  one  does  not  look 
like  an  unsubstantial  body.'  Then  some  came 
towards  me,  as  far  as  they  could,  always  careful 
not  to  come  out  where  they  should  not  burn." 

Once  again  the  living  Dante  is  an  object  of 
amazement  —  this  time,  in  the  circle  of  gluttony: 
"  Our  speech  did  not  delay  our  going,  nor  our 
going  our  speech;  but,  conversing,  we  went  briskly 
on,  like  a  ship  pushed  by  a  fair  wind.  And  the 
souls,  which  looked  like  things  twice  dead,  ob- 
serving that  I  was  alive,  sucked  in  wonder  of  me 
through  their  hollow  eyes." 

These  scattered  passages  show  how  skilfully 
the  poet  could  ring  changes  on  one  theme.  Let 
us  turn  to  another.  In  the  following  lines,  it  is 
three  in  the  afternoon,  and  Dante,  as  he  walks, 
is  just  facing  the  sunset;  "and  the  sunbeams 
struck  the  middle  of  our  noses  (because  we  had 
so  encircled  the  mountain  that  we  were  walk- 
ing straight  toward  the  setting  sun),  when,  all 
at  once,  I  felt  my  brow  much  more  weighed  down 
with  brightness  than  it  had  been  before,  and,  not 
knowing  why,  I  was  amazed."  First  he  tries, 
with  his  hands,  to  shade  his  eyes  from  this  in- 

[147] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

creased  light,  but  in  vain;  then  he  conjectures  that 
it  may  be  refracted  upward  by  some  pool  in  his 
path;  finally  he  asks  Virgil:  "  '  What  is  it,  sweet 
father,  from  which  I  cannot  screen  my  eyes  enough 
to  help  me,  and  which  seems  to  be  moving  to- 
wards us?  '  '  Marvel  not,'  he  answered,  '  if  the 
family  of  Heaven  still  dazzles  thee.  It  is  a  mes- 
senger arrived  to  bid  us  mount.  Soon  it  shall 
come  to  pass  that  the  sight  of  such  things  shall  not 
be  a  pain,  but  a  gladness  as  great  as  nature  has 
prepared  thee  to  enjoy.'  ' 

With  angels,  we  pass  beyond  the  field  of  ex- 
perience into  the  realm  of  creative  imagination. 

Came  forth  the  lovely  creature  from  afar, 
Its  raiment  white,  as  beautiful  its  head 
As  looks  to  us  the  twinkling  morning  star. 

It  spread  its  arms,  and  then  its  wings  it  spread. 
"  O  come,  draw  near,  the  stairs  are  close  at  hand, 
And  all  the  climb  is  easy  now,"  it  said. 

Of  course,  angels  had  in  art  already  assumed  a 
certain  conventional  exterior;  but  of  that  Dante 
really  keeps  only  the  sublimated  human  form  and 
the  wings.  His  angelic  figures  are  made  up  almost 
wholly  of  sweetness  and  light.  One  of  them 
speaks  "  in  a  voice  far  more  living  than  ours." 
It  is  the  function  of  another  of  these  heavenly 
messengers  to  transport  souls  in  a  boat  from  the 
Tiber's  mouth  to  the  island  of  Purgatory.  The 
souls  in  question  belong  to  Christians  who  have 
just  died  penitent;  and  the  Tiber's  mouth  rep- 
resents the  bosom  of  the  Church.  Dante  and 
Virgil  are  on  the  shore  of  the  island,  newly  ar- 
[148] 


VISION 

rived,  when  they  see,  in  the  distance,  first  the 
angel's  shining  face,  then  its  white  wings  and  gar- 
ment, finally  the  craft.  "  We  were  still  close  to 
the  sea,  like  people  wondering  about  their  way, 
heart  pressing  forward,  body  standing  motionless, 
when  lo!  —  even  as  Mars,  at  the  approach  of 
morn,  shines  red  through  the  thick  mist,  down  in 
the  west,  just  above  the  ocean  level,  —  so  there 
appeared  to  me  (as  I  hope  to  see  it  again!)  a 
light  coming  over  the  water  so  swift  that  no  flight 
can  compare  with  its  speed.  And  when  I  had  for 
a  moment  withdrawn  my  eye  from  it,  to  question 
my  leader,  I  saw  it  again,  bigger  and  brighter. 
Next,  on  either  side  of  it,  something  white  ap- 
peared, and  beneath,  little  by  little,  another  white- 
ness. My  master  as  yet  spake  not  a  word,  until 
the  first  white  spots  revealed  themselves  as  wings. 
As  soon  as  he  was  sure  who  the  boatman  was,  he 
shouted :  '  Down,  down  on  thy  knees !  Here  is 
God's  angel !  Clasp  thy  hands  !  Henceforth  thou 
shalt  meet  such  ministers  as  these.  See  how  he 
scorns  all  human  instruments,  plying  no  oar,  nor 
other  sail  than  his  own  wings,  between  such  dis- 
tant shores.  See  how  he  holds  his  pinions  uplifted 
toward  heaven,  fanning  the  air  with  those  eternal 
plumes,  which  change  not  like  the  hair  of  mortals.' 
Then,  as  the  bird  of  God  came  nearer  and  nearer, 
it  shone  brighter  still,  so  bright  that  my  eye  could 
not  endure  it  close  at  hand;  and  I  looked  down. 
The  angel  came  ashore  with  a  little  boat  so  light 
that  the  water  swallowed  none  of  it.  At  the  stern 
stood  the  heavenly  helmsman,  —  such  a  shape 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

that  the  mere  description  of  it  would  be  a  bene- 
diction, —  and  within  sat  more  than  a  hundred 
spirits,  all  of  them  singing  together,  with  one 
voice,  '  When  Israel  went  out  of  Egypt,'  and  the 
rest  of  the  psalm  that  follows  in  the  writ.  Then 
he  made  over  them  the  sign  of  the  holy  cross, 
whereat  they  all  threw  themselves  on  the  shore; 
and  he  departed,  fleet  as  he  had  come." 

Here  is  a  scene,  just  as  original  in  its  conception, 
but  as  different  in  character  as  picture  can  be  from 
picture.  We  are  in  the  very  core  of  the  earth, 
beside  Satan  —  a  vast  monstrous  form,  wedged 
into  a  mass  of  rock  and  ice,  his  upper  part  project- 
ing into  Hell,  his  legs  into  a  cave  on  the  other 
side.  Now,  near  his  middle  is  the  centre  of  our 
globe,  the  centre  of  gravity  of  all  matter:  Satan's 
head,  therefore,  is  above  the  middle  on  one  side 
of  that  centre;  but  his  feet  are  above  it  on  the 
other.  For  a  straight  downward  motion,  if  it  be 
continued  in  the  same  direction  beyond  the  earth's 
centre,  becomes  an  upward  motion  as  soon  as  it 
crosses  that  point.  Dante  and  Virgil  have  pursued 
such  a  course :  they  have  crawled  through  a  crack, 
passed  the  middle  point  of  the  globe,  and  emerged 
into  a  cavern  still  very  close  to  the  centre,  but  be- 
longing to  the  other  hemisphere.  Dante  as  yet 
does  not  realize  what  they  have  done,  having  been 
carried  on  Virgil's  back. 

From  out  the  crevice  of  a  stone  he  crept, 
And  on  the  nearest  edge  he  seated  me, 
Then  cautiously  across  to  me  he  stept. 

I  lifted  up  my  eyes,  and  thought  to  see 

[150] 


VISION 

The  shape  of  Satan  we  had  left  behind, 
But  saw,  projecting  upward,  shank  and  knee. 
Now  let  the  reader  ignorant  and  blind, 

Who  doth  not  understand  what  we  had  past, 
Imagine  how  distracted  was  my  mind. 

Solid  realism  is  the  tone  of  Dante's  Hell;  his 
Purgatory  is  still  of  earth,  but  surrounded  by  a 
celestial  atmosphere;  his  Heaven  is  compounded 
almost  exclusively  of  light  and  music.  Think, 
then,  what  almost  superhuman  resourcefulness  is 
required  to  diversify  the  stages  of  his  journey 
through  the  skies  !  In  one  place,  dancing  rings  of 
bright  spirits;  in  another,  a  ladder  of  light,  ex- 
tending beyond  the  range  of  vision,  with  souls 
flitting  over  it;  in  still  another,  a  vast  army  of 
militant  ghosts  collected  in  the  form  of  a  gigantic 
fiery  cross,  like  two  Milky  Ways  intersecting  at 
right  angles,  and  all  alive  with  song.  Elsewhere 
a  host  of  shining  souls  takes  the  form  of  an  Eagle, 
symbol  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  which  flaps 
its  wings  like  a  real  bird,  and  speaks  with  a  single 
voice. 

Methought  I  heard  a  river  murmuring 

Adown  its  clear  descent  from  stone  to  stone, 
A  witness  to  its  bounteous  mountain  spring. 

As  music  in  the  zither  takes  its  tone 
Along  the  neck,  and  in  the  tuneful  reed 
Along  the  holes  wherein  the  breath  is  blown, 

Thus,  rising  up  with  never-changing  speed, 
Within  the  eagle  flowed  a  murmuring  thrill 
Along  the  neck,  as  't  were  a  hollow  weed ; 

There  turned  to  voice,  and  issued  thro'  the  bill, 
Pronouncing  words,  which  my  expectant  heart, 
That  wrote  them  down,  with  exstasy  did  fill. 

[151] 


THE    POWER    OF    DANTE 

Dante's  first  experience  of  heaven  is  his  rapid 
ascent,  with  Beatrice,  from  the  Garden  of  Eden  to 
the  moon,  into  whose  substance  they  penetrate. 

The  inborn  thirst  for  Heaven,  which  never  dies, 
Was  sweeping  us  along  from  where  we  were, 
Wellnigh  as  swift  as  turn  the  wheeling  skies. 

My  lady  lookt  aloft,  and  I  at  her  ; 

And  quicker  than  a  bolt  can  fly  and  light 
And  quit  the  notch,  with  nothing  to  deter, 

I  saw  myself  transported  to  a  site 

Where  something  wonderful  mine  eyes  did  meet. 
And  she  who  readeth  all  my  thoughts  aright 

Now  turned  to  me  as  glad  as  she  was  sweet : 

;<  Thank  God  within  thy  heart,"  she  said,  "  who  thus 
Hath  carried  us  his  lowest  star  to  greet." 

Methought  a  heavy  cloud  envelopt  us, 
Solid  but  gleaming,  limpid  yet  opaque, 
Like  diamond  made  by  sunshine  luminous. 

Inside  itself  th'  eternal  pearl  did  take 
Both  her  and  me,  as  water  takes  a  ray 
Of  sunlight  piercing  thro'  without  a  break. 

Now  Beatrice,  with  her  disciple,  is  about  to 
flash  from  the  moon  to  the  planet  Mercury,  and 
stands  gazing  up  toward  the  Empyrean: 

My  lady  spake  as  I  to  write  contrive ; 

Then  turned,  all  full  of  yearning  wistfulness, 

Toward  the  quarter  that  is  most  alive. 
Her  changing  form  and  silence  motionless 

Restrain  my  eager  mind,  which  speaketh  not, 

Tho'  questions  new  and  strange  begin  to  press. 
Like  arrowhead  that  hits  the  target's  dot 

Before  the  quivering  string  hath  come  to  rest, 

So  we  into  the  second  kingdom  shot. 
Such  happiness  my  lady  there  possest 

[152] 


VISION 

That,  when  she  stopt  within  the  planet  bright, 
That  orb  with  greater  brilliancy  was  blest. 

And  if  the  smiling  star  increast  its  light, 

Then  what  became  of  me,  whose  natural  mood 
Is  sensitive  to  every  sound  and  sight? 

As  in  a  limpid  pond  the  finny  brood 

Come  swimming  up,  when  falleth  from  above 
A  thing  that  hath  to  them  the  look  of  food, 

So  I  beheld  a  thousand  splendors  move, 
Approaching  us,  and  each  appeared  to  cry: 
"  Lo !  here  is  one  who  shall  increase  our  love !  " 

In  this  conception  of  things  never  seen  by  mor- 
tal eye,  Dante  goes  beyond  the  usual  domain  of 
poets;  but  he  passes  even  further.  The  pictures 
thus  far  drawn,  though  novel  in  their  totality,  are 
made  of  materials  known  to  the  senses.  But  in 
his  figures  of  celestial  joy,  his  "  smile  of  the  uni- 
verse," in  his  symbols  of  Grace  and  of  God,  he 
transcends  the  bounds  of  description,  conveying, 
through  means  necessarily  finite  and  material,  the 
impression  of  immaterial  infinity.  This  is  sug- 
gestion, not  painting.  It  is  "  such  stuff  as  dreams 
are  made  on "  —  dreams,  which  faintly  linger 
when  we  first  awake,  and  which  we  afterwards 
vainly  struggle  to  recall. 

So  slumber  breaks,  when  smites  the  covered  eye 
A  new  and  suddenly  appearing  light ; 
And,  breaking,  quivers  ere  it  wholly  die. 

A  man  was  I  who  dimly  catches  sight 

Of  some  forgotten  dream,  and  tries  and  tries 
To  bring  it  back  to  mind,  but  cannot  quite. 

One  more  dream-passage  I  shall  cite  in  conclusion. 
It  tells  what  Dante  experienced  in  endeavoring  to 

[iS3l 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

reduce  to  words  his  ineffable  concept;  it  tells  what 
we,  on  closing  the  Paradise,  think  we  have  felt. 

E'en  as  a  man  who  seeth  in  his  sleep, 

Whose  mood  still  lingers,  when  the  dream  is  done, 
Tho'  nothing  else  the  memory  can  keep, 

E'en  so  am  I ;  for  what  my  sleep  hath  spun 
Is  almost  wholly  gone,  yet  still  doth  ease 
My  heart  a  sweetness  from  the  vision  won. 

Thus  snow,  unlockt  by  sunshine,  swiftly  flees ; 
Thus  Sybil's  wisdom,  writ  on  fluttering  leaves, 
Was  wafted  off  forever  by  the  breeze. 


[154] 


LECTURE   VI 
CONCEPTION 

AT  the  close  of  the  Vita  Nttova  —  that  wonder- 
fully discreet  record  of  Dante's  emotional  life 
under  the  influence  of  Beatrice  —  a  strange,  fas- 
cinating, baffling  combination  of  self-revelation 
and  reticence  —  we  find  a  sonnet  which  tells  how 
the  poet's  thought,  in  the  form  of  a  sigh,  soars 
through  all  the  revolving  skies,  and,  piercing  the 
outermost  and  greatest,  leaving  the  world  of  mat- 
ter behind,  enters  Paradise,  where  it  beholds  the 
soul  of  Beatrice  in  glory. 

Beyond  the  sphere  that  all-encircling  sways 

A  sigh,  escaping  from  my  heart,  doth  fare. 

An  insight  new,  which  Love,  so  full  of  care, 
Inspireth  now,  impels  it  up  always. 
When  it  has  reacht  the  goal  for  which  it  prays, 

It  sees  a  lady  full  of  honor  there; 

And  on  her  light,  which  shines  beyond  compare, 
The  pilgrim  spirit  wondering  doth  gaze. 
'T  is  all  so  strange  that,  when  it  tells  me  this, 

I  cannot  comprehend,  it  puzzles  so 

The  mournful  heart  which  ever  bids  it  tell. 

It  speaketh  of  that  gentle  one,  I  know, 
Because  it  often  nameth  Beatrice; 

And  that,  dear  ladies  mine,  I  hear  full  well. 

"  After  this  sonnet,"  continues  Dante,  "  there 
appeared  to  me  a  marvelous  vision,  wherein  I  saw 

[155] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

things  that  made  me  determine  to  say  no  more  of 
this  blessed  one  until  I  should  be  able  to  speak  of 
her  more  fitly.  And  to  that  end  am  I  studying 
with  all  my  strength,  as  she  verily  knoweth. 
Wherefore,  if  it  shall  be  the  pleasure  of  Him 
through  whom  all  things  live  that  my  life  be  pro- 
longed some  years,  I  hope  to  say  of  her  what  never 
yet  was  said  of  woman.  And  then  may  He,  who 
is  the  Lord  of  kindness,  grant  that  my  soul  go 
forth  to  behold  the  glory  of  its  lady,  of  that 
blessed  Beatrice,  who  doth  gloriously  behold  the 
face  of  Him  who  is  blessed  forever." 

A  hope  and  a  prayer  that  were  surely  both  ful- 
filled! A  monument  such  as  never  before  —  nor 
since  —  was  erected  to  any  woman,  he  verily 
builded;  and,  if  we  may  believe  the  testimony  of 
those  nearest  him,  his  soul  went  forth  just  after 
the  completion  of  his  great  task.  When  he  wrote 
the  lines  I  have  quoted,  he  was  some  twenty-eight 
or  twenty-nine  years  old,  midway  in  his  earthly 
career,  for  he  died  at  the  age  of  fifty-six.  Many 
cares,  labors,  and  trials  intervened;  but  during  a 
great  part  of  this  second  half  of  his  life  he  must 
have  carried  his  mighty  project  in  mind.  Vast 
preparatory  studies  are  foreshadowed  in  the  pas- 
sage cited;  and  much  of  the  knowledge  he  thereby 
acquired  was  eventually  set  forth  in  other  works 
—  principally  in  the  Banquet  and  in  the  treatise 
On  Vernacular  Composition.  Both  of  these,  how- 
ever, he  left  unfinished,  and  returned  to  his  first 
design. 

Now,  what  was  the  monument  to  Beatrice,  as 

[156] 


CONCEPTION 

he  conceived  it?  What  was  the  "marvelous 
vision  "  that  flashed  upon  him,  "  after  this  son- 
net? "  What  conception  should  we  expect  of  a 
man  of  his  faith,  his  ethical  standards,  his  char- 
acter, his  experience,  his  poetic  genius  —  and,  let 
us  not  forget  to  add,  his  time?  The  sonnet  itself 
and  the  following  prose  reveal  something  of  his 
idea:  his  tribute  was  to  be  a  vision  of  Heaven, 
with  Beatrice  there  enthroned,  whatever  else  it 
might  come  to  convey.  We  may  infer  also  that  it 
was  to  picture  her  as  the  guiding  spirit  of  his  own 
progress  heavenward,  as,  indeed,  she  is  already 
sketched  in  the  Vita  Nuova.  If  so,  there  must 
have  been  the  purpose  of  a  mystic  journey,  like 
that  of  Bunyan's  Christian.  We  have,  then,  thus 
far,  the  conception  of  an  ascent  of  Dante's  soul, 
led  by  his  lady,  from  the  sin  and  sorrow  of  earth 
to  the  pure  joy  of  Paradise,  where  Beatrice  dwells 
in  glory.  But  such  a  narrative  is  really  a  spiritual 
autobiography,  a  sequel  to  the  tale  told  in  the 
New  Life,  though  related  on  a  grander  scale.  As 
it  grows,  as  it  deepens,  the  poet's  experience  be- 
comes typical  of  the  history  of  all  mankind. 

Such  an  undertaking  indeed  demands  faith, 
moral  insight,  character,  acquaintance  with  the 
world,  poetic  imagination.  The  need  of  these 
attributes  is  self-evident;  but  why  should  it  call 
for  extensive  preliminary  study  on  the  part  of  the 
writer?  Perhaps  to  round  out  his  theology  and 
ethics,  to  increase  through  books  his  knowledge 
of  man,  and  to  improve  his  literary  form  by  copy 
of  the  best  examples.  Without  doubt  these  objects 

[157] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

were  in  the  author's  mind;  but  I  think  there  was 
something  more.  Dante  was  eager  to  help  his 
fellowmen,  and  to  help  them  in  more  ways  than 
one.  Utility  his  book  would  not  lack,  if  it  pointed 
the  way  to  Heaven;  but  man  wants  guidance  like- 
wise for  his  earthly  walks,  and  good  teaching  was 
scarce.  The  monumental  poem  was  to  be  also  a 
storehouse  of  information,  a  banquet  of  philos- 
ophy. '  The  great  unspeakable  Providence,"  says 
Dante  in  his  Monarchy,  "hath  set  two  ends  for 
the  pursuit  of  man:  to  wit,  the  happiness  of  this 
life  .  .  .  and  the  happiness  of  life  eternal.  .  .  . 
And  to  these  happinesses,  as  to  different  goals,  we 
must  come  by  different  means.  For  to  the  first 
we  come  by  philosophical  teachings,  if  we  follow 
them,  acting  in  accordance  with  the  moral  and 
intellectual  virtues.  But  to  the  second,  by  spiritual 
teachings,  which  transcend  human  reason,  if  we 
follow  them,  acting  in  accordance  with  the  theo- 
logical virtues,  Faith,  Hope,  and  Love." 

The  great  poem  over  which  the  spirit  of  Bea- 
trice was  to  preside,  was  destined,  then,  to  be  a 
guide  to  both  heavenly  and  earthly  happiness.  In 
form,  it  was  to  be  the  story  of  Dante's  own  sal- 
vation; his  passage  from  sin  to  repentance,  and 
through  reason  and  discipline  to  purity;  from 
worldly  cares  to  contemplation  of  the  divine.  The 
tale  is  told  in  the  first  person:  it  is  unmistakably 
Dante's  own;  to  stamp  its  authenticity  beyond 
mistake,  he  introduces,  at  the  middle  stage  of  his 
progress,  his  name  —  which,  he  declares,  "is 
bound  to  be  registered  here."  Now,  in  general, > 

[158] 


CONCEPTION 

the  author  believed  that  it  is  unbecoming  to  speak 
of  one's  self,  because  one  cannot  do  so  without 
praising  or  blaming,  both  of  which  are  undigni- 
fied. There  are,  however,  certain  circumstances 
under  which  such  speech  is  legitimate.  After  an 
unjust  accusation,  it  is  lawful  to  discuss  one's  self 
to  prove  one's  innocence.  Also  it  is  right  to  do 
so,  "  when,"  as  Dante  says  in  his  Banquet,  "  by 
speaking  of  one's  self  very  great  help  is  given  to 
others,  in  the  way  of  teaching;  and  this  considera- 
tion moved  St.  Augustine,  in  his  Confessions,  to 
talk  about  himself;  for  by  the  course  of  his  life, 
which  was  from  evil  to  good,  from  good  to  better, 
and  from  better  to  best,  he  offered  an  example  and 
a  lesson  such  as  could  be  received  from  no  other 
witness  so  trustworthy  as  he." 

For  the  autobiographical  side  of  his  poem, 
Dante  found,  therefore,  a  precedent,  and,  in  a 
very  general  sense,  a  model,  in  the  Confessions 
of  St.  Augustine.  For  the  fiction  of  a  vision  of 
the  other  world,  he  had  as  inspiration,  on  the  one 
hand,  the  sixth  book  of  the  JEneid,  which  relates 
the  descent  of  ^Eneas  into  the  world  of  the  dead, 
and,  on  the  other,  a  mass  of  medieval  legend  - 
the  Irish  stories  of  Tundal  and  of  St.  Patrick's 
Purgatory,  the  vision  of  the  Italian  Friar  Alberic, 
and,  oldest  of  the  lot,  the  so-called  Apocalypse  of 
St.  Paul.  This  last  was  a  Greek  document  of  the 
end  of  the  fourth  century,  narrating  the  journey 
of  St.  Paul,  guided  by  an  angel,  through  Hell, 
Purgatory,  and  Heaven;  though  never  accepted 
,  by  the  Church,  it  became,  in  Latin  and  vernacular 

[159] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

translations,  immensely  popular.  Now,  while 
Dante  adopted  none  of  these  works  as  a  pattern, 
he  knew  them ;  they  were  in  his  consciousness  when 
he  planned  his  monument,  the  character  of  which 
they  helped  to  determine.  There  must  have  been 
also  in  his  store  of  recollections  some  stories  of 
marvelous  journeys,  such  as  that  of  the  Irish 
monk,  St.  Brendan,  who  sailed  afar  out  into  the 
Atlantic  and  discovered  the  Isle  of  the  Blest;  or 
that  of  three  Eastern  monks,  who,  following  up  a 
stream,  climbed  a  mountain  a  hundred  miles  high, 
on  whose  summit  they  found  the  Garden  of  Eden; 
or,  hardly  less  wonderful,  the  real  travels  of 
Marco  Polo  in  Asia.  Here,  too,  there  is  no  ques- 
tion of  imitation  (save  perhaps  a  stray  detail  here 
and  there)  ;  there  is  nothing  more  than  a  general 
coloring  of  Dante's  imagination.  For  the  idea 
of  a  great  granary  of  wisdom,  suggestion  was 
ready  at  hand  in  the  ancient  and  the  medieval 
encyclopedias,  whose  compilers  strove  to  collect 
and  transmit  in  convenient  form  the  accumulated 
knowledge  of  foregoing  generations  of  scholars. 
Such  a  compendium  was  the  Treasure  of  Dante's 
elderly  friend  and  counselor,  Brunette  Latini. 

This  same  Florentine,  Master  Brunetto,  wrote, 
however,  something  vastly  more  important  for 
the  genesis  of  the  conception  of  the  Divine 
Comedy  —  the  Tesoretto,  or  Little  Treasure, 
which  really  combines  in  itself  nearly  all  the  ele- 
ments I  have  enumerated:  it  is  a  confession,  a 
fantastic  journey,  a  compilation  of  learning,  and 
it  may  perhaps  be  called  a  vision.  Furthermore, 
[160] 


CONCEPTION 

it  is  cast  in  allegorical  form,  and  in  verse  —  poor 
enough  verse,  to  be  sure,  mere  doggerel  couplets : 
still,  a  poem,  an  allegorical  poem,  relating  a  quest 
for  happiness,  told  in  the  first  person.  Here  we 
have,  no  doubt,  the  most  important  single  sug- 
gestion among  those  which  contributed  to  the  plan 
of  the  Divine  Comedy.  The  two  works  are  as 
far  apart  as  two  poems  well  can  be,  and  Dante's 
reminiscences  of  the  Little  Treasure  are  so  petty 
that  scarcely  anyone  has  thought  it  worth  while 
to  mention  them;  yet  to  Brunetto  Latini  he  owed 
a  debt  in  which  all  lovers  of  the  Divina  Corn- 
media  have  a  share  —  a  debt  which  Dante  himself 
fully  appreciated.  The  soul  of  Master  Brunetto, 
encountered  in  the  world  below,  speaks  to  him 
these  words : 

If  but  thy  star  shall  guide  thee  with  its  light, 

A  glorious  haven  shalt  thou  surely  see, 

If  in  the  happy  life  I  judged  aright. 
If  death  had  not  so  promptly  taken  me, 

Knowing  that  Heaven  to  thee  had  been  so  kind, 

In  thine  emprise  I  should  have  heartened  thee. 

And  the  poet  replies: 

If  favoring  Heaven  upon  my  wishes  smiled, 
If  God  my  whole  entreaty  would  allow, 
You  were  not  yet  from  human  life  exiled. 

For  stampt  upon  my  mind  (a  sadness  now) 
Your  friendly,  dear,  paternal  face  I  see, 
As  in  the  world  you  ever  taught  me  how 

A  mortal  man  may  win  eternity. 

How  deep  my  gratitude,  in  all  my  speech, 
As  long  as  I  shall  live,  revealed  must  be. 

[161] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

I  have  said  that  Brunette's  Little  Treasure  is 
an  allegory;  it  begins,  however,  with  a  bit  of  his- 
torical fact.  Here  is  its  story,  in  a  few  words. 
Returning  in  1260  from  Spain,  whither  he  had 
(in  reality)  been  sent  by  Florence  on  a  mission  to 
Alfonso  X  of  Castile,  he  hears  on  the  way  the 
news  of  the  battle  of  Montaperti  and  the  bloody 
defeat  of  the  Guelfs.  In  sad  meditation  over  this 
disaster  to  his  party,  he  loses  his  way  in  a  strange 
wood.  Suddenly  he  comes  to  his  senses,  and  sees 
near  by  the  beautiful  and  majestic  figure  of  a 
lady,  Dame  Nature,  who  imparts  to  him  a  great 
deal  of  erudition.  Then  he  travels  through  a 
wilderness,  until  he  reaches  a  lovely  plain,  the 
land  of  Virtue,  inhabited  by  emperors,  kings,  and 
scholars,  governed  by  the  four  Cardinal  Virtues 
(whose  palaces  he  inspects),  with  Virtue  —  un- 
qualified—  as  Empress  over  all.  Yet  this  does 
not  satisfy  him,  for  he  craves  love  and  joy.  Re- 
suming his  journey,  he  finds  at  last  the  country  he 
has  sought,  the  land  of  Love  —  a  fascinating  and 
mysterious  region.  In  a  flowery  meadow,  which 
is  forever  changing,  are  throngs  of  people,  some 
gay,  some  sad;  and  in  their  midst  sits  enthroned  a 
winged  youth  named  Pleasure,  who  is  constantly 
shooting  arrows  into  the  crowd.  Here,  as  in  the 
land  of  Virtue,  there  are  four  queens :  Fear,  Long- 
ing, Love,  Hope.  The  poet,  after  having  been 
instructed  in  the  theory  of  love,  falls  under  the 
dominion  of  that  passion.  From  this  dangerous 
predicament  he  is  saved  by  Ovid  —  who,  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  was  regarded  as  a  moralist,  his 
[162] 


CONCEPTION 

work  being  interpreted  allegorically.  Through 
suitable  penance,  Brunette  attains  purity.  Re- 
nouncing the  quest  of  worldly  happiness,  he  re- 
turns to  the  wood,  hoping  to  find  the  way  to  the 
land  of  the  Seven  Liberal  Arts,  the  land  of  Learn- 
ing. Many  countries  are  traversed.  Persistently 
he  rides  on  until  he  scales  Olympus,  on  whose 
summit  he  encounters  a  venerable  white-bearded 
figure.  This  is  Ptolemy,  master  of  astronomy  and 
philosophy,  whom  the  traveler  eagerly  questions. 
We  are  now  prepared  for  a  feast  of  reason;  but 
at  this  point  the  poem  breaks  off.  This  symbolic 
moral  narrative  —  with  its  strange  wood,  its 
search  for  true  happiness,  its  introduction  of  a 
Latin  poet  as  a  rescuer,  its  didactic  female  figure 
of  Dame  Nature,  its  ascent  of  a  lofty  mountain, 
its  reverend  sage  at  the  close  —  contains  the  sug- 
gestion for  much  of  the  framework  of  the  Corn- 
media. 

The  main  scenery  of  Dante's  poem  may  be 
found,  in  germ,  in  the  Piston  of  St.  Paul  and 
the  legends  that  followed  it,  telling  of  visits  to  the 
other  world;  in  the  JEneid;  and  in  stories  of  the 
Earthly  Paradise.  Its  real  theme,  the  experience 
of  a  human  soul  snatched  from  perdition  to  the 
way  of  salvation,  was  probably  inspired,  if  it 
had  any  external  source,  by  St.  Augustine's  Con- 
fessions. There  remains  the  role  of  Beatrice,  in 
whose  honor  the  Divine  Comedy  was  first  de- 
signed. Her  figure  in  the  great  poem  has,  to  be 
sure,  something  in  common  with  Brunette's  Dame 
Nature;  but  it  has  much  closer  kinship  with  the 

[163] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Lady  Philosophy  who  comes  to  comfort  Boethius 
in  his  prison  and  expounds  to  him  the  teachings 
of  the  Greek  thinkers.  The  Consolation  of 
Philosophy,  by  Boethius  (a  late  Latin  statesman, 
scholar,  philosopher,  and  literary  artist),  was  the 
first  book  of  secular  philosophy  studied  by  Dante, 
who  had  recourse  to  it  in  his  desolation  after  the 
death  of  Beatrice. 

We  have  collected  the  materials  —  very  good 
materials,  too,  although  only  one  man  has  ever 
lived  who  could  have  built  of  them  the  greatest  of 
all  poems.  The  truth  is,  of  course,  that  Dante 
did  not  really  construct  with  the  materials  fur- 
nished him :  what  he  derived  from  his  sources 
shrinks  into  insignificance  when  compared  to  what 
he  drew  from  his  own  experience  and  his  own 
imagination.  Even  in  outward  shaping  he  is 
amazingly  original.  His  work  displays  in  the 
highest  degree  a  fundamental  structural  quality 
that  is  quite  lacking  in  his  predecessors,  and  is, 
indeed,  but  little  exemplified  by  the  other  world- 
masterpieces  of  all  ages.  I  mean  symmetry.  The 
Iliad  perhaps  comes  nearest  to  the  Divine  Comedy 
in  this  respect;  but  still  how  far  removed!  Next 
one  might  name  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales. 
The  Odyssey,  the  ALneid,  Paradise  Lost  show  but 
vague  outlines.  Goethe's  Faust,  virtually  none 
at  all. 

One  cannot  read  very  far  in  Dante  without  ob- 
serving how  dear  to  him  is  this  quality  of  sym- 
metry; how  clear  is  the  evidence,  in  his  works,  of 
a  distinct  architectural  bent.  Our  poet  was  at  one 

[164] 


CONCEPTION 

time  appointed  in  Florence  a  commissioner  to 
superintend  the  alteration  of  a  street;  but  whether 
or  not  this  charge  implies  a  recognition  of  archi- 
tectural study  or  talent,  it  would  be  rash  to  guess. 
We  know  that  he  could  draw;  for  in  the  Vita 
Nuova  he  speaks  of  designing  figures  of  angels  on 
the  anniversary  of  his  lady's  death;  and  in  the 
Divina  Commedia  there  is  at  least  one  simile  that 
could  scarcely  have  occurred  to  a  man  unfamiliar 
with  the  technical  difficulties  of  painting.  "  Men 
call  a  thing  beautiful,"  says  Dante  in  the  Banquet, 
"  when  its  parts  properly  correspond  in  such  a 
way  that  their  harmony  gives  pleasure.  Hence 
a  man  appears  handsome  when  his  limbs  are  in 
proper  proportion;  and  we  call  a  song  beautiful 
when  the  words  that  compose  it  are  in  harmony 
with  one  another,  according  to  the  demands  of  the 
art.  Therefore  is  that  discourse  most  beautiful 
whose  parts  most  suitably  harmonize."  In  his 
treatise  on  vernacular  poetry  he  defines  the  can- 
zone, or  ode,  as  the  elegant  combination  of  equal 
stanzas,  without  a  refrain,  into  a  single  theme; 
and  he  announces  his  intention  of  proving  in  the 
third  part  of  this  work  (which  unfortunately 
was  never  written)  that  the  ode  is  "  something 
sublime." 

Several  of  Dante's  lyrics  show  a  predilection 
for  groupings  based  on  the  number  three.  He 
was,  in  general,  much  addicted  to  arranging  things 
in  threes  or  multiples  of  three.  One  canzone  is 
written  in  three  languages :  Provencal,  Latin,  and 
Italian.  His  Latin  treatise  on  Monarchy  is  in 

[165] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

three  books :  the  first  arguing  that  mankind  needs 
one  general  government,  superior  to  all  local 
rule ;  the  second,  that  the  Roman  Empire  was  pre- 
destined to  fill  this  need;  the  third,  that  the  Em- 
peror derives  his  authority  from  God  directly,  and 
is  not  subordinate  to  the  Pope.  Dante's  principal 
Italian  works  form  a  great  trilogy,  the  New  Life, 
the  Banquet,  the  Divine  Comedy.  The  New  Life 
itself  has  as  its  nucleus  a  group  of  three  odes. 

If  we  look  more  closely  at  the  architecture  of 
this  "  little  book,"  we  shall  discern  a  curiously 
patterned  framework.  As  you  know,  the  Vita 
Nu ova  consists  of  a  series  of  poems,  selected  by 
Dante  in  1293  or  '94  from  his  previous  work,  and 
arranged  presumably  in  chronological  order;  with 
a  prose  explanation  that  forms  a  more  or  less 
consecutive  story,  the  poems  being  embedded,  at 
intervals,  in  the  prose.  Now,  these  poems  are  in 
number  thirty-one,  three  of  them  being  long 
canzoni,  while  twenty-eight  are  shorter  composi- 
tions. The  twenty-eight  lesser  ones  are  all  son- 
nets, except  three:  one  of  these  is  a  ballad;  one  is 
a  stanza  of  an  interrupted  canzone;  the  third  is 
called  by  the  author  a  canzone,  but,  having  only 
two  stanzas,  is  rather  of  the  type  known  in  Prov- 
ence as  a  half -canzone.  It  seems,  then,  legitimate 
to  group  all  these  twenty-eight  briefer  poems 
together,  as  contrasted  with  the  three  long  odes, 
or  full  canzoni.  If  we  do  so,  we  find  that  the 
poems  of  the  Vita  Nuo-va  are  arranged  in  a  regu- 
lar scheme:  in  the  centre,  three  odes,  the  middle 
one  being  separated  from  each  of  the  others  by 
[166] 


CONCEPTION 

four  short  pieces;  before  the  three  odes,  ten  short 
pieces;  after  the  three,  ten  short  pieces.  In  other 
words,  the  order  of  little  and  big  is  this:  ten,  one, 
four,  one,  four,  one,  ten.  But  there  is  another 
division,  according  to  the  subject-matter  —  a 
division  into  three  parts,  almost  exactly  equal  in 
length,  but  not  marked  in  any  obvious  way  by  the 
author.  Part  One  comprises  the  period  between 
Dante's  first  sight  of  Beatrice  and  his  conversion 
to  platonic  love;  Part  Two,  the  period  between 
this  conversion  and  the  death  of  his  lady;  Part 
Three,  the  period  between  her  passing  and  his 
vision  of  her  in  Paradise.  The  work  begins, 
therefore,  with  her  first  appearance  to  him  on 
earth,  and  ends  with  her  first  appearance  to  him 
in  Heaven.  The  two  symmetries,  of  form  and  of 
substance,  are  quite  independent  of  each  other. 
Both  are  so  unobtrusive  that  a  reader  may  study 
the  book  attentively,  many  times,  without  observ- 
ing either.  The  New  Life  would  seem  to  be  thus 
conceived  rather  for  the  satisfaction  of  an  inner 
craving  than  for  the  sake  of  producing  an  effect 
on  its  audience. 

Very  conspicuous,  on  the  contrary,  in  the  same 
work,  is  a  multiple  of  three,  the  number  nine, 
which  accompanies  Beatrice  in  her  relations  with 
Dante.  The  ninth  hour  is  especially  persistent. 
After  his  lady's  death,  the  author  offers  an  ex- 
planation of  the  mysterious  affinity  between  her 
and  the  recurrent  nine.  She  died,  as  we  make  out 
from  the  somewhat  cryptic  text,  early  in  the  eve- 
ning of  June  8,  1290.  This  date  containing  but 

[167] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

one  nine,  Dante,  in  order  to  bring  in  the  mystic 
number  three  times,  has  recourse  to  the  calendars 
of  Araby  and  Syria,  about  which  his  textbook  of 
astronomy  offered  him  some  information.  The 
Syrians  begin  their  year  with  October,  so  that 
June  is  their  ninth  month.  The  Arabs,  beginning 
their  day  with  sunset,  regard  the  close  of  our 
June  8  as  the  first  part  of  their  June  9.  Thus  we 
get  three  nines,  in  the  day,  the  month,  and  the 
year.  Now  let  us  hear  what  Dante  himself  says  : — 
"  I  declare  that  according  to  the  usage  of  Araby 
her  most  noble  soul  departed  in  the  first  hour  of 
the  ninth  day  of  the  month;  and  according  to  the 
usage  of  Syria  she  departed  in  the  ninth  month  of 
the  year,  for  the  first  month  there  is  Tisrin  First, 
which  is  our  October.  And  according  to  our  usage 
she  departed  in  that  year  of  our  indiction  (that  is, 
of  the  years  of  our  Lord)  in  which  the  perfect 
number  [ten]  was  nine  times  completed  in  that 
century  in  which  she  was  placed  in  this  world;  and 
she  was  one  of  the  Christians  of  the  thirteenth 
century  [she  died  in  the  year  90  of  the  thirteenth 
century  of  the  Christian  era].  Why  this  number 
was  so  friendly  to  her,  the  following  might  be  a 
reason:  forasmuch  as,  according  to  Ptolemy  and 
according  to  Christian  truth,  nine  are  the  heavens 
that  move,  and,  according  to  common  astrological 
opinion,  the  aforesaid  heavens  operate  here  below 
in  accordance  with  their  relation  to  one  another, 
this  number  was  friendly  to  her  to  show  that  in 
her  generation  all  nine  moving  heavens  were  in 
perfect  harmony  together.  This  is  one  reason 
[168] 


CONCEPTION 

for  it;  but,  considering  more  subtly  and  in  accord- 
ance with  infallible  truth,  this  number  was  she 
herself  —  I  mean  figuratively,  and  I  understand 
it  thus:  the  number  three  is  the  root  of  nine,  be- 
cause, without  any  other  number,  by  itself  it  makes 
nine;  as  we  plainly  see  that  three  times  three  is 
nine.  Therefore  if  three  is  by  itself  the  maker 
of  nine,  and  the  Maker  of  miracles  by  himself  is 
three  (to  wit,  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  which 
are  three  and  one)  this  lady  was  accompanied  by 
the  number  nine  to  show  that  she  was  a  nine,  that 
is,  a  miracle,  whose  root  is  the  wondrous  Trinity 
alone.  Perhaps  by  a  subtler  person  could  be  found 
in  this  a  still  subtler  reason;  but  this  is  the  one 
that  I  see  and  like  best." 

Three  is  the  symbol  of  the  Godhead;  and  nine, 
or  what  three  makes  of  itself,  is  the  symbol  of  a 
miracle,  which  God  makes  of  himself:  therefore 
nine  is  the  number  that  befits  the  miraculous 
Beatrice.  Such  is  Dante's  complicated  argument. 
It  must  be  remembered  that  in  the  Middle  Ages 
the  symbolism  of  numbers  formed  a  recognized 
branch  of  philosophical  inquiry.  The  subject  is 
discussed  at  length  by  such  masters  as  St.  Augus- 
tine, Rabanus  Maurus,  Hugh  of  St.  Victor.  An 
inevitable  significance  is  imposed  on  certain  num- 
bers by  association  with  Christian  theology.  The 
most  important  of  these  is  three,  —  the  favorite 
number,  also,  in  folk-lore  and  in  general  popular 
use. 

On  three  is  based  the  whole  plan  of  the  Divine 
Comedy.  In  the  first  place,  the  entire  poem  is 
composed  in  terza  rim  a,  a  sequence  of  groups  of 
[169] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

three  lines,  the  second  line  of  each  group  riming 
with  the  first  and  third  of  the  next.  In  the  second 
place,  the  Commedia  consists  of  three  parts,  In- 
ferno, Purgatorio,  Paradiso.  These  are  divided 
into  cantos  (that  is,  in  Italian,  canti,  or  "  songs  "), 
of  unequal  length,  but  on  the  average,  of  about 
one  hundred  and  forty  lines  each.  The  whole 
work  contains  just  a  hundred  cantos  —  the  "per- 
fect number  "  multiplied  by  itself.  The  first  canto 
being,  however,  a  sort  of  introduction  to  all  the 
poem,  there  remain  ninety-nine  cantos,  which  are 
evenly  distributed  among  the  three  parts,  each 
receiving  thirty-three. 

So  much  for  the  external  form.  In  the  matter  of 
the  Commedia  we  observe  the  same  prominence 
of  the  "  mystic  number."  There  are  three  realms 
of  the  dead.  Hell  is  composed  of  three  parts, 
where  are  punished  respectively  sins  of  weakness, 
violence,  and  fraud.  The  mountain  on  the  soli- 
tary island  is  also  tripartite,  consisting  of  Purga- 
tory itself,  of  the  slopes  below  it,  and  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden  above  it.  Heaven  likewise  may 
be  separated  into  three  regions:  first  the  spheres 
within  the  reach  of  the  earth's  shadow  (those  of 
the  moon,  Mercury,  and  Venus)  ;  second,  those 
beyond  the  shadow  but  below  the  fixed  stars  (the 
spheres  of  the  sun,  Mars,  Jupiter,  and  Saturn)  ; 
third,  the  sky  of  the  fixed  stars,  the  invisible 
outermost  crystalline  heaven,  and  the  Empyrean 
or  true  Paradise  of  spirit. 

Coming  to  the  narrative  itself,  we  encounter 
the  same  number.  Three  beasts  —  a  leopard,  a 


CONCEPTION 

lion,  and  a  wolf  —  block  Dante's  passage  up  the 
Delectable  Mountain;  but  he  is  rescued  by  three 
ladies  who  care  for  him  in  Heaven:  the  Virgin 
Mary,  St.  Lucia,  and  Beatrice.  Dante  spends 
three  nights,  and  has  three  allegorical  dreams,  on 
the  mountain  of  Purgatory.  Even  in  little  details 
the  same  predilection  is  evident.  The  bank  which 
the  poet  descends  to  reach  the  Valley  of  the 
Princes,  on  the  slope  of  the  mountain,  is  three 
steps  deep ;  the  stream  that  separates  him  from 
Matilda,  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  is  three  steps 
broad.  Three  stairs  —  perhaps  representing  orig- 
inal innocence,  sin,  and  atonement  —  lead  to  the 
gate  of  Purgatory.  Satan  has  three  faces.  St. 
Peter  encircles  Dante  three  times,  in  token  of  his 
satisfaction  over  the  poet's  successful  examination 
in  Faith.  Three  times  Virgil  calls  Dante,  to 
arouse  him  from  his  stupor,  after  one  of  his 
visions.  Three  times  does  Dante  try  to  embrace 
the  intangible  shade  of  the  musician,  Casella, 
which  he  meets  on  the  island  of  Purgatory. 

One  of  the  souls,  I  saw,  advancing  came 

To  clasp  me  in  its  arms,  so  lovingly 

I  felt  a  keen  desire  to  do  the  same. 
O  shadows  vain  to  touch,  tho'  plain  to  see! 

Three  times  behind  it  I  my  hands  did  hook  ; 

Three  times  I  brought  them  empty  back  to  me. 
My  face,  I  think,  assumed  a  wondering  look  ; 

Whereat  the  shadow  smiled  and  drew  away. 

Pursuing  it,  a  forward  step  I  took. 
Right  gently,  then,  it  counseled  me  to  stay. 

At  that  I  recognized  it,  and  besought 

The  shade  to  stop,  a  word  with  me  to  say. 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

One  is  surprised  that  Dante,  with  his  love  of 
symmetry  and  his  fondness  for  three,  should  not 
have  provided  himself  with  a  separate  guide  for 
each  of  the  three  kingdoms  he  has  to  traverse. 
As  it  is,  Virgil  conducts  him  through  Hell  and 
Purgatory,  Beatrice  through  Heaven.  In  the 
latter  part  of  the  second  realm,  to  be  sure,  Statius 
is  added  to  the  two  companions,  and  explains  some 
things  which  are  perhaps  a  little  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  pagan  Virgil;  for  Dante  chose  to  regard 
Statius  as  having  been  on  earth  a  Christian, 
secretly  converted.  Now,  it  may  be,  of  course, 
that  in  his  first  conception,  the  poet  planned  to 
make  Statius  the  guide  throughout  Purgatory,  in 
which  case  there  would  have  been  an  exact  har- 
mony in  the  three  parts  of  the  poem.  But  if  he 
ever  had  such  a  design,  he  abandoned  it;  perhaps 
because  he  could  not  make  it  fit  his  allegory,  per- 
haps because  he  had  become  so  fond  of  Virgil  that 
he  was  loath  to  give  him  up.  For  Virgil,  symbolic 
though  he  was,  had  become  very  real  to  Dante. 
The  directing  personages  of  the  Divine  Comedy 
are  both  real  and  allegorical:  Virgil  is  Reason, 
Cato  of  Utica  is  Free  Will,  Beatrice  is  Revelation, 
St.  Bernard  is  Intuition;  but  they  are  still  Virgil, 
Cato,  Beatrice,  and  St.  Bernard. 

That  Dante's  monumental  poem  should  be  alle- 
gorically  conceived  was  inevitable.  His  whole 
philosophy  was  steeped  in  symbolism,  and  allegory 
was  in  his  day  regarded  as  the  highest  type  of 
literary  composition.  From  the  early  centuries  of 
Christianity  the  Bible  had  been  expounded  allegor- 
[  172] 


CONCEPTION 

ically;  symbolism  pervaded  religious  service  and 
religious  architecture.  Moreover,  the  same 
method  of  interpretation  had  been  applied  to  the 
myths  of  Homer;  Virgil  and  Ovid  were  looked 
upon  as  master  allegorists;  and  we  have  reason  to 
believe  that  Dante  found  Christian  allegory  in 
Statius.  In  French,  the  most  fashionable  poem  was 
the  allegorical  Romance  of  the  Rose;  in  Italian, 
Dante  had  before  him  the  Little  Treasure  of  his 
friendly  adviser.  Even  in  his  own  New  Life,  the 
God  of  Love  may  be  called  an  allegorical  figure. 
Between  the  Vita  Nuova  and  the  Divina  Corn- 
media,  we  find  in  his  work  two  allegories,  one  of 
them  continued  through  several  poems,  the  other 
confined  to  a  single  ode.  As  the  latter  is  the 
shorter  and  the  less  known,  let  us  consider  it  first. 
The  canzone  in  question,  Tre  donne  intorno  al 
cor  mi  son  venute,  is  a  poem  of  exile.  Carducci 
thought  it  the  noblest  of  Dante's  allegorical  lyrics. 
It  begins  thus : 

Three  ladies  round  my  heart  are  clustering, 
And  seat  themselves  outside. 
Within  doth  Love  reside, 
Who  hath  my  whole  existence  in  his  care. 
So  fair  and  good  are  they,  the  mighty  king 
(I  mean  the  trusty  guide 
Who  in  my  heart  doth  bide) 
To  speak  of  their  distress  can  hardly  bear. 
Mournful  appears  each  one,  and  in  despair, 
A  weary  creature,  into  exile  hurled, 
Forsaken  by  the  world, 

Whose  virtue  and  estate  are  no  defence. 
In  times  not  distant  hence 

[  173  ] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Men  showed  them  love,  they  say ;  now  they  are  shown 
Nothing  but  hate  and  cold  indifference. 

These  ladies  all  alone 

Have  come  to  seek  a  home,  knowing  full  well 
My  heart  contains  the  friend  of  whom  I  tell. 

One  lady,  —  who  leans  her  head  on  her  hand  like 
a  plucked  rose,  and  whose  tears  drip  on  her  bare 
arm,  while  the  other  hand  hides  her  weeping  face, 
—  is  questioned  by  Love,  indignant  at  her  poverty 
and  her  shameful  rags.  And  she  replies,  sighing: 
"  O  food  of  few,  it  is  our  divine  kinship  that  sends 
us  to  thee.  I,  the  saddest,  am  thy  mother's  sister. 
I  am  Justice,  tattered  as  thou  seest."  [Love,  or 
Cupid,  was  the  son  of  Venus;  and  Venus  and 
Astraea,  the  goddess  of  Justice,  were  both  daugh- 
ters of  Jupiter.]  When  she  had  thus  made  her- 
self known,  grief  and  shame  seized  my  lord,  and 
he  asked  who  were  the  other  two  that  were  with 
her.  And  she  that  was  so  prone  to  tears,  fired  with 
fresh  grief  at  his  words,  replied:  "  As  thou  must 
know,  the  Nile  rises  as  a  tiny  stream  from  a  spring 
[in  the  Garden  of  Eden].  There,  where  the  foli- 
age of  the  osier  shades  the  earth  from  the  great 
sunshine,  above  the  virgin  waters,  I  bore  her  who 
is  at  my  side,  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  blond 
tresses.  This  beauteous  offspring  of  mine,  gazing 
at  herself  in  the  clear  spring,  conceived  the  third, 
who  is  furthest  from  me."  [Who  are  these  mys- 
terious ladies  —  mother,  daughter,  and  grand- 
daughter, the  first  a  goddess,  the  other  two 
immaculately  born  in  the  Earthly  Paradise? 
Dante's  son  Pietro,  in  his  commentary  on  the 

[174] 


CONCEPTION 

Divine  Comedy,  refers  to  them,  and  states  that 
his  father  intended  them  to  signify  Divine  Right, 
Human  Right  (born  of  Divine  Right  in  the  first 
abode  of  man) ,  and  Law  (the  reflection  of  Human 
Right,  assuming  a  form  as  soon  as  mankind  came 
into  existence).  This  interpretation,  which  meets 
all  the  requirements  of  the  text,  is  probably  cor- 
rect. Divine  Right,  Human  Right,  and  Law  ap- 
pear as  exiles  to  Dante,  an  outcast  himself,  just 
as  to  St.  Francis  there  once  appeared  (according 
to  St.  Bonaventure)  the  three  ladies,  Poverty, 
Chastity,  and  Obedience.  There  exists,  unpub- 
lished, a  long  commentary  on  this  poem,  written 
about  1400,  which  is  said  to  be  worthless  in  most 
respects,  but  which  affords  one  bit  of  information 
that  may  be  true  —  namely,  that  the  ode  was 
written  in  1311,  when  Florence  granted  amnesty 
to  many  of  her  banished  citizens,  but  not  to  Dante. 
That  the  author  was  an  exile  at  the  time  of  writ- 
ing, is  made  evident  by  the  poem  itself.  Let  us 
see  how  it  continues.]  Sighs  at  first  prevent  Love 
from  speaking.  After  a  little,  his  once  wayward 
eyes  wet  with  tears,  he  greets  his  disconsolate 
kinswomen.  Then,  picking  up  his  arrows  [one  of 
gold,  one  of  lead,  as  Ovid  describes  them],  he 
says:  "Lift  up  your  heads!  Here  are  the  weap- 
ons I  once  chose;  they  are  tarnished  from  disuse. 
Bounty  and  Temperance  and  the  other  ladies 
born  of  our  blood  now  go  a-begging.  Yet  if  this 
be  grievous,  it  is  for  the  eyes  and  lips  of  men  to 
bewail  it,  unhappy  men,  whose  star  has  consigned 
them  to  this  age;  not  for  us,  who  belong  to  the 

[175] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

eternal  citadel.  If  we  are  now  wounded,  we  shall 
not  always  be ;  for  a  race  shall  return  which  shall 
make  this  arrow  bright  again."  [The  last  full 
stanza  I  shall  attempt  to  render  metrically,  as  I 
did  the  .first:] 

And  I,  who  hear  exiles  as  grand  as  these 
Take  comfort,  then  repine, 
With  eloquence  divine, 
Am  prone  to  glory  in  my  banishment. 
For  if  the  power  of  destiny  decrees 
That  in  this  world  malign 
White  flowers  to  black  decline, 
To  fall  among  the  good  is  heaven-sent. 
And  'neath  my  burden  I  could  be  content, 
If  only  I  were  not  so  far  removed 
From  what  my  eyes  have  loved, 

Whose  loss  hath  lit  a  burning  fire  in  me, 
Which  hath  so  utterly 

Consumed  the  flesh  and  bones  I  dwelt  within 
That  Death  against  my  breast  hath  set  his  key. 

Wherefore,  if  I  did  sin, 
My  fault  is  dead  and  gone,  this  many  a  day, 
If  man's  repentance  washes  guilt  away. 

In  the  envoy,  Dante  bids  his  song  conceal  its 
inner  self  until  questioned  by  a  friend  of  virtue, 
worthy  of  receiving  its  message.  This  is  an  ex- 
cellent specimen  of  allegory  in  brief  compass. 

The  other  allegory  is  that  of  Lady  Philosophy. 
We  have  met  in  the  later  chapters  of  the  New 
Life  a  young  girl  who,  from  a  window,  looks 
sympathetically  at  the  afflicted  poet,  and  gradually 
awakens  in  his  heart  a  feeling  that  he  judges  to 
be  disloyal  to  the  departed  Beatrice.  For  this 
compassionate  lady  he  wrote  several  poems  — 


CONCEPTION 

four  sonnets  incorporated  in  the  "  little  book," 
and  probably  a  few  that  are  not  there  included. 
The  episode  closes,  in  the  Vita  Nuova,  with  the 
triumph  of  the  old  love;  but  the  struggle  in  his 
heart  between  two  rival  interests  was  presently 
utilized  by  him  as  a  symbol  of  a  contest  between 
his  placid  and  religious  devotion  to  the  glorified 
Beatrice  and  his  ardent,  impatient,  frenzied  pur- 
suit of  philosophy;  and  in  this  second  competition 
it  is  the  new  love  that  for  a  long  time  is  victorious. 
We  cannot  be  sure,  in  every  case,  whether  a  poem 
was  intended  for  the  real  lady  or  the  allegorical 
one ;  and  it  is  evident  that  when  Dante  wrote  the 
Banquet,  he  wished  his  readers  to  believe  that  all 
the  verses  were  symbolical,  that  there  never  was  a 
sympathetic  lady  of  flesh  and  blood.  The  girl  of 
the  New  Life,  however,  is  an  uncompromisingly 
real  person;  on  the  other  hand,  the  lady  of  the 
odes  in  the  Banquet,  and  of  some  other  poems, 
has  a  sufficiently  immaterial  look  to  make  one 
suspect  her  of  symbolic  intent,  even  if  one  had  not 
the  author's  word  for  it.  At  first  sight,  it  seems 
odd  that  a  very  youthful  female  should  have  been 
chosen  to  represent  the  majestic  science,  the 
"  daughter  of  God;  "  especially  since  Dante  works 
out  the  figure  in  whimsical  detail,  making  the  lady 
now  grand,  now  sweetly  indulgent,  now  skittish 
and  contrary,  now  persistently  cruel  and  self- 
absorbed.  We  must  remember  that,  in  the  de- 
jection which  followed  the  death  of  Beatrice,  the 
poet  was  comforted  at  the  same  time  by  the  pity- 
ing face  at  the  window  and  by  the  study  of  philos- 

[  177  ] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

ophy,  so  that  the  two  were  closely  associated  in 
his  mind;  in  the  Consolation  of  Philosophy,  more- 
over, which  Dante  was  reading  just  at  this  time, 
Boethius  offered  a  model  for  a  personification  of 
the  celestial  science  as  a  woman. 

Now  let  us  look  at  three  poems  which  unmis- 
takably belong  to  the  philosophical  end  of  the 
series,  and  which  are  explicitly  described  by  their 
author  as  allegories.  In  the  introductory  book 
of  the  Banquet  we  read,  after  the  definition  of  the 
two  conditions  under  which  it  is  proper  to  speak  of 
one's  self:  "  I  am  impelled  by  fear  of  infamy  and 
I  am  impelled  by  the  desire  of  giving  instruction 
which  verily  no  one  else  can  give.  I  fear  the  in- 
famy of  having  followed  such  a  passion  as  the 
reader  of  the  aforesaid  odes  conceives  to  have 
ruled  over  me;  which  infamy  is  removed  by  my 
present  complete  account  of  myself,  which  shows 
that  not  passion  but  virtue  was  the  moving  cause. 
I  intend  also  to  show  the  real  meaning  of  these 
poems,  which  by  some  cannot  be  seen  unless  I  tell 
it,  for  it  is  hidden  under  the  figure  of  allegory. 
And  this  will  give  not  only  good  pleasure  to  hear, 
but  also  subtle  teaching,  both  in  that  kind  of 
speech  and  in  that  kind  of  interpretation  of  the 
writings  of  others."  An  allegorical  sense,  Dante 
explains  further  on,  "  is  one  that  is  hid  under  the 
cloak  of  inventions;  it  is  a  truth  hidden  under 
a  pretty  fiction :  as  when  Ovid  saith  that  Orpheus 
with  his  lyre  tamed  the  wild  beasts  and  made  trees 
and  stones  come  unto  him;  which  meaneth  that 
the  wise  man  with  the  instrument  of  his  voice  doth 

[178] 


CONCEPTION 

tame  and  humble  cruel  hearts  and  move  unto  his 
will  those  who  have  no  life  of  science  and  art,  for 
those  who  have  no  rational  life  are  as  stones." 

Now,  the  first  canzone  of  the  Banquet,  Voi  cine 
intendendo  il  terzo  del  movete,  "  Ye  who  by 
thought  the  sphere  of  Venus  turn,"  is  an  appeal  to 
the  angels  of  the  third  heaven  to  listen  to  the 
strange  conflict  that  is  in  the  poet's  heart,  a  con- 
flict between  his  soul,  whose  comfort  hitherto  has 
been  the  thought  of  a  blessed  lady  in  Paradise, 
and  a  new  thought,  which  banishes  the  old  one 
and  assumes  dominion  over  the  heart  on  behalf 
of  a  new  lady.  The  frightened  soul,  weeping  and 
expecting  death,  is  comforted  by  "  a  gentle  little 
sprite  of  love,"  who  tells  how  wise  and  kindly  is 
this  new  queen,  and  how  worthy  of  reverence. 
"  Song,"  says  Dante,  in  the  envoy,  "  I  believe 
they  will  be  few  who  shall  understand  thy  dis- 
course aright,  thou  speakest  it  so  hard  and  weari- 
some "  —  words  which  seem  to  point  to  a  hidden 
meaning,  "  a  truth  hidden  under  a  pretty  fiction." 
In  the  second  of  the  three  poems  —  a  ballad,  not 
included  in  the  Banquet  —  the  fiction  is  still  more 
obvious.  It  tells  of  a  scornful  lady,  who,  having 
stolen  the  poet's  heart,  will  not  let  him  look  into 
her  eyes,  because  she  knows  that  Love  is  in  them, 
and  therefore  wishes  to  keep  them  for  her  own 
enjoyment  in  her  mirror.  The  third  poem  (Amor 
die  nella  mente  mi  ragtona,  the  second  ode  of  the 
Banquet]  repudiates  the  sentiments  of  this  ballad, 
declaring  that  the  cruelty  was  not  in  the  lady  her- 
self, but  in  Dante's  fear  of  her.  Now  she  reigns 

[179] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

supreme  over  him,  as,  by  God's  command,  she 
rules  the  world.  Divine,  beautiful  beyond  words, 
she  reveals  the  joys  of  Heaven;  and  all  good 
thoughts  come  from  her. 

In  his  prose  exposition,  in  the  Banquet,  Dante 
sets  forth  as  follows  the  "  allegorical  and  true  " 
meaning  of  the  first  of  these  canzoni:  "  I  declare 
that  when  the  first  joy  of  my  soul  was  lost,  whereof 
mention  hath  been  made  above,  I  was  left  wounded 
with  such  woe  that  no  consolation  did  help  me. 
Nevertheless,  after  some  time,  my  mind,  which 
was  striving  to  be  well,  bethought  itself,  since 
neither  my  own  comforting  nor  another's  availed, 
of  returning  to  the  method  of  self-consolation  fol- 
lowed by  some  disconsolate  ones  in  the  past;  and 
I  began  to  read  that  book  of  Boethius,  unknown  to 
many,  in  which,  outcast  and  imprisoned,  he  had 
comforted  himself;  and  learning,  furthermore, 
that  Tully  had  written  another  book  in  which, 
treating  of  Friendship,  he  had  uttered  words 
for  the  consolation  of  Laelius,  a  most  excellent 
man,  for  the  death  of  his  friend  Scipio,  I  began 
to  read  that.  And  although  it  was  hard  for  me 
at  first  to  enter  into  their  meaning,  I  finally  pene- 
trated it  as  far  as  the  art  of  grammar  which  I 
possessed,  and  a  little  understanding  of  my  own, 
could  go;  by  means  of  which  understanding  I 
already  had  discerned,  as  it  were  in  a  dream, 
many  things,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  New  Life. 
And,  as  it  often  happens  that  a  man  goeth  in 
search  of  silver  and  beyond  his  expectation  findeth 
gold,  presented  by  some  hidden  cause,  perhaps  not 
[180] 


CONCEPTION 

without  divine  command,  so  I,  seeking  to  console 
myself,  found  not  only  remedy  for  my  tears,  but 
words  of  authorities  and  sciences  and  books; 
pondering  on  which,  I  was  assured  that  philos- 
ophy, mistress  of  these  authorities,  sciences,  and 
books,  was  a  thing  supreme.  And  I  imagined  her 
fashioned  as  a  gentle  lady;  nor  could  I  picture  her 
in  any  act  save  one  of  mercy.  Wherefore  did  my 
sense  contemplate  her  verily  with  such  satisfaction 
that  I  scarcely  could  turn  it  from  her.  And  from 
this  imagining  I  began  to  go  where  she  did  show 
herself  in  very  truth,  namely,  to  the  schools  of 
the  churchmen  and  the  disputations  of  philos- 
ophers; so  that  in  a  short  time,  perhaps  in  thirty 
months,  I  began  so  to  feel  her  sweetness  that  love 
of  her  drove  forth  and  destroyed  every  other 
thought.  Wherefore  I,  feeling  myself  taken  from 
the  thought  of  the  first  love  to  the  power  of  this, 
opened,  as  in  wonder,  my  lips  to  the  discourse  of 
the  foregoing  song,  revealing  my  state  under  the 
figure  of  other  things.  For  of  the  lady  with  whom 
I  was  falling  in  love  no  rime  of  any  vernacular 
was  worthy  to  speak  openly,  nor  were  my  hearers 
sufficiently  well  prepared  to  have  so  easily  under- 
stood my  undisguised  speech,  nor  would  their 
credence  have  been  given  to  the  true  meaning 
as  to  the  fictitious;  for  it  was  truly  and  fully  be- 
lieved that  I  was  inclined  to  the  one  love,  which 
was  not  believed  of  the  other.  I  began,  therefore, 
to  sing:  '  Ye  who  by  thought  the  sphere  of  Venus 


turn.' 


Passing  on  to  Dante's  greatest  and  last  allegory, 
[181] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

the  Divine  Comedy,  we  ask:  what  is  the  "truth 
hidden  under  its  fiction;  "  what,  as  the  author  con- 
ceived the  work,  was  the  "  allegorical  and  true  " 
message  he  intended  to  convey?  The  answer  is 
now  not  difficult.  Evidently,  in  its  fundamental 
conception,  the  poem  is  an  authentic  confession  — 
in  an  intricately  and  symmetrically  artistic  form  - 
of  Dante's  recognition  of  sin,  his  penitence,  and 
the  uplifting  of  his  soul.  This  is  the  "  truth  " 
concealed  under  the  "  fiction "  of  a  journey 
through  Hell,  Purgatory,  and  Paradise  —  a  truth 
threefold  and  one,  like  the  Holy  Trinity  itself. 
Stripped  of  its  mantle  of  invention,  the  real  story, 
the  spiritual  story,  runs  thus. 

The  poet  suddenly  becomes  conscious  that  he 
is  leading  an  unworthy  life,  lost  in  worldliness. 
Terrified,  he  tries  to  save  himself,  to  change  his 
conduct;  but  in  vain:  his  vicious  habits  are  in  the 
way.  Yet  at  this  very  moment  the  Divine  Care 
which  ever  watches  over  men  is  contriving  his 
salvation;  and  reason,  restored  to  him  by  heavenly 
intervention,  comes  to  his  rescue  —  reason,  "  faint 
from  long  silence."  Reason  it  is  that  reveals  to 
him  in  their  hideous  reality  all  the  vices  of  hu- 
manity, so  convincing  him  of  the  ugliness,  the 
meanness,  the  utter  folly  of  sin  that  he  turns  his 
back  on  it  in  horror,  and  by  silent,  resolute  plod- 
ding on  the  upward  path  leaves  it  far  behind  him. 
But  there  is  more  to  do.  The  danger  of  new 
temptation  is  still  there;  because  mankind  has  by 
wrongdoing  acquired  certain  perverse  tendencies 
which  continually  incline  it  to  evil.  These  tend- 
[182] 


CONCEPTION 

encies  are  seven  in  number  —  the  seven  cardinal 
vices :  pride,  envy,  anger,  sloth,  avarice,  gluttony, 
luxury.  To  some  of  these  Dante  is  more  addicted 
than  to  others :  pride,  anger,  luxury  are  his  beset- 
ting sins;  but  his  soul  must  be  absolutely  cleansed 
of  all.  There  must  be  no  delay;  procrastination 
is  full  of  peril.  The  penitent  must  allow  no 
occupation  —  however  innocent,  however  noble 
—  to  impede  his  reconciliation  with  God.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  pilgrim  who  is  striving  with  all  his 
might  suddenly  finds  himself  drawn  upward  by  a 
mysterious  power  not  his  own.  Purity  is  to  be 
won  only  by  discipline,  submissively  accepted  from 
God's  earthly  vicar.  Hard  penance,  appropriate 
to  the  fault,  cheerfully  borne  under  heavenly 
direction,  will  wash  the  stain  away. 

I  would  not  have  thee,  reader,  be  afraid 
To  carry  out  a  good  resolve,  altho' 
I  tell  how  God  demands  the  debt  be  paid. 

Consider  not  the  penitential  woe, 

Only  the  consequence !     For  at  the  worst 
Thy  pain  beyond  the  Judgment  cannot  go. 

The  penance  all  completed,  innocence  is  re- 
stored, and  absolute  free  will:  the  soul  becomes  as 
guiltless,  as  joyous,  as  independent  as  were  Adam 
and  Eve  before  the  fall.  Then  it  can  appreciate, 
as  never  before,  God's  revelation  to  humanity,  the 
redemption  of  man  by  Christ,  the  glory  of  the 
Church,  which  'has  triumphantly  withstood  so 
many  trials,  such  deadly  assaults  from  without 
and  from  within.  Life  is  all  gladness  and  beauty. 
But  the  enjoyment  of  this  life  is  not  the  highest 

[183] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

reward  of  moral  cleanness.  "  Blessed  are  the 
pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God."  Step  by 
step  the  pure  soul  is  led  upward  by  divine  revela- 
tion. It  converses  with  the  blest  in  Heaven,  the 
dwellers  in  the  "many  mansions"  of  the  "Father's 
house."  Little  by  little,  as  its  vision  continually 
gains  in  clearness,  it  comes  to  grasp  the  mysteries 
of  Faith,  the  wonders  of  Paradise,  the  adjustment 
of  happiness  to  the  capacity  of  each  spirit,  the 
fulfillment  of  God's  eternal  plan.  Upward,  still 
upward  soars  the  pure  soul,  —  now  blinded,  now 
illumined  by  a  brighter  light,  ever  more  and  more 
conscious  of  the  infinite  outpouring  of  divine 
Grace,  —  until  it  attains  its  ultimate  goal,  the  pre- 
destined end  of  man,  immediate  communion  with 
the  Maker.  Not  through  the  sense  is  it  conscious 
of  his  presence,  not  through  the  understanding, 
no  longer  by  means  of  revelation,  but  through 
direct  intuition.  No  longer  does  it  see  "  through 
a  glass,  darkly,"  but  "  face  to  face."  Such  is  the 
experience  that  Dante  tries,  as  far  as  human 
speech  will  permit,  to  convey  to  his  fellows. 

0  Fire  Supreme,  which  human  minds  ignore, 
Inept  to  scale  thy  height,  I  pray  thee,  some 
Fragment  of  thy  revealing  now  restore, 

And  lend  such  power  unto  mine  organs  dumb 
That  I  one  single  spark  of  all  thy  light 
May  leave  to  generations  yet  to  come. 

For  if  it  glimmer  on  mine  aftersight 
And  faintly  echo  in  the  verse  I  pen, 
Better  conceived  by  man  shall  be  thy  might. 

1  think,  so  keenly  did  I  suffer  when 

I  faced  the  living  beam,  my  sight  were  spent, 

[184] 


CONCEPTION 

Had  I  mine  eyes  from  it  averted  then. 

This  thought  new  courage  to  my  spirit  lent, 
As  I  remember,  till  my  struggling  gaze 
On  God's  immeasurable  self  was  bent. 

O  grace  abounding!  thro'  the  endless  rays 
Thou  gavest  me  full  confidence  to  look, 
Till  mortal  sight  was  quencht  within  the  blaze. 
[From  Dante,  372-373.] 


[185] 


LECTURE  VII 
WORKMANSHIP 

IN  the  Garden  of  Eden,  led  by  the  gentle 
Matilda,  Dante  tastes  the  waters  of  the  river 
Eunoe,  whose  sweetness  he  would  fain  try  to 
describe,  if  he  had  time  to  linger  a  little  at  the 
close  of  his  Purgatorio,  the  second  cantica  of  his 
poem. 

But  since  the  pages  of  my  second  part 
Are  filled  already,  rounding  out  my  plan, 
I  am  arrested  by  the  check  of  art. 

'  The  check  of  art  "  -  a  significant  phrase.  In 
Dante  are  united  two  qualities  very  seldom  mated 
in  one  person:  spontaneity  and  discipline.  Surely 
no  poet  was  ever  more  exuberantly  original;  yet 
no  other  great  poet  on  a  large  scale  has  equaled 
him  in  severity  of  restraint,  in  strict  adherence  to 
a  preconceived  artistic  plan.  Dante  built  his 
Divine  Comedy,  a  work  of  some  fourteen  thousand 
verses,  with  the  same  system,  the  same  elaborate 
plotting  out,  the  same  subordination  of  detail  to 
total  effect  that  we  find  in  the  formal  short  lyrics 
of  his  predecessors  and  contemporaries. 

Even  in  the  short  poem,  his  patterning,  though 
no  more  intricate  than  that  of  some  of  his  fellow- 
[186] 


WORKMANSHIP 

craftsmen,  is  carried  out  with  a  success,  an  ap- 
parent ease  and  naturalness,  which  none  of  them 
achieved.  As  examples  let  me  cite  three  of  his 
most  formal  pieces.  Here  is  the  opening  strophe 
of  one  in  which  the  effect  depends  on  the  repetition 
of  certain  words  at  fixed  points,  this  repetition 
taking  the  place  of  rime  : 

O  Love,  thou  plainly  canst  perceive,  this  queen 
Cares  nothing  for  thy  power  at  any  time  — 

Thy  power,  which  other  fair  ones  call  their  queen ! 
And  when  this  lady  saw  she  was  my  queen, 
Beholding  in  my  face  thine  amorous  light, 
She  made  herself  of  cruelty  the  queen. 
No  longer  doth  her  heart  befit  a  queen, 

But  some  wild  beast,  whose  heart  to  love  is  cold ; 

For  always,  be  the  season  hot  or  cold, 
She  governs  me  as  if  she  were  a  queen 

Not  flesh  and  blood,  but  carved  in  beauteous  stone 

By  one  whose  hand  is  best  at  carving  stone. 

And  so  it  runs  on  through  four  more  stanzas,  the 
same  words  being  used  in  all,  but  in  an  order  that 
changes,  according  to  a  set  formula,  from  stanza 
to  stanza.  Here  is  the  envoy: 

O  Song,  I  carry  in  my  mind  a  queen 
So  beautiful,  for  all  she  be  of  stone, 

She  gives  me  courage,  tho'  mankind  be  cold, 
To  dare  to  write,  despite  the  season's  cold, 

A  thing  so  strange  that  (by  thy  constant  light!) 
It  never  was  conceived  at  any  time. 
[From  The  Ladies  of  Dante's  Lyrics,  pp.  78-79.] 

The    Provencal    poet,    Arnaut    Daniel,    whom 
Dante  placed  at  the  head  of  all  writers  in  the 

[  187] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

vulgar  tongue,  had  invented  a  special  type  of 
poem  in  which  rime  is  replaced  by  repetition. 
This  is  the  sestina,  a  piece  of  six  stanzas,  each  of 
six  lines,  and,  at  the  end,  an  envoy  of  three  lines. 
Throughout  the  poem,  the  six  lines  of  all  the 
stanzas  end  with  the  same  six  words ;  and  all  six 
are  repeated  in  the  three  lines  of  the  envoy.  From 
stanza  to  stanza  their  order  changes,  according 
to  a  regular  scheme.  If  the  arrangement  in  one 
stanza  is  123456,  the  sequence  in  the  next  will  be 
615243:  that  is,  last,  first,  next-to-last,  next-to- 
first,  third-from-last,  third-f rom-first.  Dante  wrote 
one  poem  of  this  kind,  Al  poco  glorno  ed  al  gran 
cerchio  cTombra,  I  think  the  most  successful  ses- 
tlna  ever  composed.  It  belongs,  like  the  one 
just  cited,  to  the  group  of  poems  inspired  by  that 
young  person  whom,  for  her  hard  heart,  the  poet 
called  Pietra,  or  "  Stone."  Here  are  the  first  two 
strophes : 

Al  poco  giorno  ed  al  gran  cerchio  d'ombra 
Son  giunto,  lasso !  ed  al  bianchir  de'  colli, 
Quando  si  perde  lo  color  nell'  erba. 
E'l  mio  disio  pero  non  cangia  il  verde, 
Si  e  barbato  nella  dura  pietra 
Che  parla  e  sente  come  fosse  donna. 

Similemente  questa  nuova  donna 
Si  sta  gelata  come  neve  all'  ombra; 
Che  non  la  muove,  se  non  come  pietra, 
II  dolce  tempo  che  riscalda  i  colli 
E  che  gli  fa  tornar  di  bianco  in  verde, 
Perche  gli  copre  di  fioretti  e  d'erba. 

And  here  is  an  attempt  at  a  translation  of  the 
whole  poem : 

[188] 


WORKMANSHIP 

To  dwindling  day  and  vast  encircling  shade 
I  now  have  come,  alas !  and  whitening  hills, 
When  color  hath  forsook  the  meadow  leaves; 
And  yet  my  longing  loseth  not  its  green, 
So  rooted  is  it  in  the  stubborn  stone 
Which  sentient  is  and  speechful  as  a  lass. 

Forever  chilly  stands  this  curious  lass, 
As  snow  unchanging  bideth  in  the  shade ; 
She  stirs  no  more  than  everlasting  stone, 
When  balmy  spring  returns  and  heats  the  hills 
And  makes  them  change  their  hue  from  white  to 

green, 
Decking  them  o'er  with  little  flowers  and  leaves. 

When  that  her  head  is  garlanded  with  leaves, 
One  cannot  think  of  any  other  lass ; 
For  golden  curls  so  mingle  with  the  green 
That  Love  is  lured  to  nestle  in  the  shade. 
'T  is  Love  that  locks  me  here  'mid  little  hills 
Firmer  by  far  than  mortar  locketh  stone. 

Her  charms  more  potent  are  than  magic  stone ; 
She  deals  a  wound  incurable  by  leaves. 
Lo !  I  have  fled  thro'  plains  and  over  hills, 
Attempting  to  escape  from  such  a  lass; 
But  still  her  light  is  never  screened  with  shade 
By  hillock  cast,  or  wall,  or  foliage  green. 

I  once  beheld  this  damsel  garbed  in  green, 
So  fair,  she  would  have  kindled  in  a  stone 
The  love  I  bear  unto  her  very  shade. 
Ah !  were  I  with  her  now  'mid  grassy  leaves, 
And  would  that  she  were  fond  as  any  lass, 
Within  a  field  enclosed  by  lofty  hills. 

But  sooner  shall  the  brooks  run  up  the  hills 
Than  ever  vernal  wood  so  moist  and  green 
Shall  burn  (as  oft  befalls  a  pretty  lass) 
For  me,  who  willingly  would  sleep  in  stone 
For  all  my  days,  and  feed  upon  the  leaves, 
Merely  to  see  the  ground  her  garments  shade. 

[189] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

Whene'er  the  hills  project  their  blackest  shade, 
Beneath  a  hopeful  green  the  little  lass 
Covers  it  o'er,  as  stone  is  hid  by  leaves. 
[From  The  Ladies  of  Dante's  Lyrics,  pp.  83-84.] 

Another  poem  belonging  to  the  same  group, 
one  of  the  most  beautifully  artistic  of  Dante's 
lyric  creations,  is  the  ode  lo  son  venuto  al  punto 
della  rota,  which  in  its  structure  exemplifies,  as 
we  shall  see,  both  harmony  and  contrast.  It  has 
five  full  stanzas  and  an  envoy.  In  every  stanza 
the  first  nine  lines  are  devoted  to  a  vivid  little 
picture  of  some  aspect  of  winter,  —  the  stars,  the 
atmosphere,  the  birds  and  beasts,  the  trees,  the 
soil, — while  the  last  four  lines  affirm  and  re- 
iterate the  immutability  of  the  poet's  love,  insen- 
sible to  the  cold  and  to  the  change  of  seasons. 
Antithesis  is  the  basic  principle  of  each  strophe; 
harmonic  symmetry,  of  the  poem  as  a  whole. 
Furthermore,  the  same  two  opposing  principles 
are  manifested  in  a  recurrent  detail,  at  the  end  of 
every  strophe  :  the  last  two  lines  end  with  the  same 
word,  —  pietra  in  the  first  stanza,  donna  in  the 
second,  tempo  in  the  third,  sempre  in  the  fourth, 
dolce  in  the  fifth,  marmo  in  the  envoy, — but  the 
sense  of  the  word  is  always  slightly  differentiated 
in  the  two  lines.  Here  are  two  stanzas  and  the 
envoy,  as  well  as  I  can  render  them : 

The  leaves  have  past  their  time  and  had  their  day, 
Which  first  to  life  the  breath  of  spring  did  stir, 
To  deck  the  world ;  no  living  grass  is  seen, 

And  every  verdant  twig  is  hid  away, 
Except  on  pine,  on  bay,  or  else  on  fir, 

[  190] 


WORKMANSHIP 

Or  on  some  other  tree  that  keeps  its  green. 
The  season  is  so  savage  and  so  keen, 
The  little  flowers  on  the  bank  it  dulls, 

Which  frost  will  not  endure  the  earth  above.  — 
And  yet  unfeeling  Love 
His  thorn  from  out  my  bosom  never  pulls: 

Wherefore  am  I  condemned  to  wear  it  ever 
While  I  shall  live,  tho'  I  should  live  forever. 

The  springs  pour  out  their  waters  mistily, 
Pusht  forth  by  vapors  hidden  down  below, 

Which  mother  earth's  abysses  upward  thrust. 
The  path,  on  pleasant  days  so  sweet  to  me, 
Is  now  a  running  stream,  and  long  shall  flow; 
For  while  the  winter  warreth,  flow  it  must. 
Enamel-like  the  ground  puts  on  a  crust ; 
And  stagnant  water  quickly  turns  to  glass, 
Lockt  out  of  doors  by  petrifying  frost.  — 
Yet  I,  so  battle-tost, 
Have  not  gone  back  a  single  step,  alas ! 
Nor  will  I  go !     If  martyrdom  is  joy, 
Then  death  must  be  the  best  that  men  enjoy. 

Envoy 

O  Song,  what  shall  become  of  me  when  spring 

Shall  come  renewed  and  sweet,  when  Love  shall  fall 
Like  rain  from  all  the  skies  to  hearts  untold, 
If  now,  despite  the  cold, 
Love  dwells  in  me,  and  nowhere  else  at  all  ? 
I  know  my  fate :  to  be  a  man  of  rock, 
If  Little  Maid  shall  have  for  heart  a  rock. 
[From  The  Ladies  of  Dante's  Lyrics,  pp.  87-88.] 

A  subtle  example  of  latent  but  effective  antith- 
esis is  offered  by  the  first  two  stanzas  of  the  first 
ode  of  the  New  Life,  Ladies  who  have  intelligence 
of  love. 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Ladies  who  have  intelligence  of  love, 
About  my  lady  I  would  speak  to  you. 
Her  praises  I  can  never  carry  thro' ; 

And  yet  discourse  of  her  will  ease  my  mind. 
When  pondering  on  her  worth,  all  else  above, 
Love  steals  on  me  so  sweet,  I  tell  you  true, 
That,  by  my  speech,  to  love  I  then  could  woo, 
If  I  had  courage,  all  of  humankind. 
But  't  is  not  well  so  loud  a  horn  to  wind 
That,  terrified,  my  theme  I  should  forsake: 
The  verses  which  I  now  shall  dare  to  make 
Shall  fall  her  noble  merit  far  behind. 
To  you,  Love's  maids  and  ladies,  I  shall  sing; 
For  no  one  else  is  fit  for  such  a  thing. 

Having  thus  prepared  his  readers  for  a  pitiful 
understatement  of  the  case,  our  poet  forthwith 
proceeds  to  launch  into  the  boldest  hyperbole  ever 
conceived  by  mortal  mind :  Heaven,  he  declares, 
is  incomplete  without  Beatrice;  the  angels  feel  the 
lack  of  her,  and  beseech  God  to  call  her  to  their 
company.  Here  is  the  next  strophe : 

An  angel  in  the  mind  of  God  doth  call 

Saying:  "  O  Lord,  on  earth  there  meets  our  eyes 
A  wondrous  virtue  which  doth  hither  rise 

Forth  from  a  soul  whose  light  doth  climb  anear." 
And  Paradise,  which  lacketh  naught  at  all 
Save  only  her,  unto  its  Maker  cries  — 
And  every  saint  —  to  bring  her  to  the  skies. 
Pity  alone  our  earthly  plea  doth  hear; 
For  God  declareth  of  my  Lady  dear: 
"  In  peace,  beloved  spirits,  suffer  still 
That  she  for  whom  ye  hope  await  my  will 

Below,  where  some  one  her  release  doth  fear, 
One  who  shall  say  in  Hell :  '  O  souls  disrrest, 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  hope  of  all  the  blest.'  " 

[  192  ] 


WORKMANSHIP 

In  the  same  book  there  is  another  antithesis, 
which  may  be  called  structural,  because  the  ar- 
rangement of  a  considerable  part  of  the  New 
Life  is  based  upon  it:  the  contrast  between  Dante's 
dream  of  Beatrice's  death  and  the  event  itself. 
The  first  is  told  in  a  long  and  almost  frenzied 
ode;  the  second  is  veiled  in  silence.  The  former 
(the  premonition)  occurs  just  in  the  middle  of 
the  story;  the  latter  (the  fulfillment),  two-thirds 
of  the  way  along,  exactly  balancing  Dante's  con- 
version to  platonic  love,  which  comes  after  one- 
third  of  the  narrative. 

A  much  more  obvious  and  violent  contrast  is 
furnished  by  the  announcement  of  the  lady's 
death.  After  the  delirious  prophetic  canzone  in 
the  middle  of  the  "  little  book,"  we  seem  to  enter 
on  a  new  phase,  a  mood  of  serene,  perfect  con- 
tentment and  quiet  gladness.  First  ensues  the 
dainty,  playful  sonnet  of  Monna  Vanna  and 
Monna  Bice,  accompanied  by  the  poet's  whimsical 
exposition  of  the  mystic  significance  of  names,  and 
his  justification  of  the  figure  of  prosopopoeia  — 
all  in  a  calm  and  leisurely  vein.  Next  follow  two 
sonnets,  Tanto  gentile  e  tanto  onesta  pare  and 
Vede  -perfettamente  ogni  salute,  whose  spirit  Is  the 
very  quintessence  of  peaceful  happiness.  Then 
comes  a  strophe  in  the  same  mood,  but,  if  pos- 
sible, sweeter  and  more  joyous  yet,  Si  lungamente 
m'  ha  tenuto  A  more: 

So  long  hath  Love  possessed  me  as  his  own 
And  shaped  my  will  unto  his  mastery 
That,  cruel  tho'  he  seemed  at  first  to  me, 

[  193] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

His  presence  dear  unto  my  heart  hath  grown. 
And  that  is  why,  when  all  the  strength  hath  flown 

From  out  my  breast,  and  sprites  appear  to  flee, 

My  fragile  soul  such  sweetness  then  doth  see, 
All  color  leaves  my  face,  save  white  alone. 
Then  Love  enfolds  me  with  such  mighty  stress, 

He  sends  my  sighs  all  speechf ul  on  their  way ; 

And  they  my  lady  pray, 
On  passing  forth,  for  greater  blessedness. 

'T  is  always  thus,  if  she  my  face  behold : 

A  joy  too  full  of  meekness  to  be  told. 

And  then,  immediately  after  the  quiet  exaltation 
of  this  last  line,  strikes  in  the  dull  prose,  beginning 
with  a  citation  from  the  Lamentations  of  Jere- 
miah: '  '  How  doth  the  city  sit  solitary,  she  that 
was  full  of  people  !  how  is  she  become  as  a  widow, 
she  that  was  great  among  the  nations !  '  I  was 
still  engaged  upon  this  ode,  and  had  finished 
thereof  the  foregoing  stanza,  when  the  Lord  of 
Justice  summoned  this  most  gentle  lady  to  glory 
beneath  the  banner  of  that  blessed  queen  Mary, 
whose  name  was  in  very  great  reverence  in  the 
speech  of  this  beatified  Beatrice."  A  low,  deep 
note,  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  emotional  scale, 
suddenly  interrupts  the  clear,  sweet  melody,  which 
was  gently  soaring  to  a  still  higher  pitch. 

Here  we  have  not  only  a  contrast,  but  a  sur- 
prise, as  startling  as  the  author's  art  could  make 
it.  Startling,  too,  is  the  climax  in  the  foreboding 
vision.  In  a  sick  room,  where  ladies  are  watching 
over  him,  Dante  cries  out  in  his  delirium,  and, 
questioned  by  the  frightened  watchers,  he  consents 
to  tell  his  feverish  dream.  He  was  brooding,  he 

[  194] 


WORKMANSHIP 

says,  on  his  feeble  condition  and  on  the  instability 
of  human  life,  when  the  thought  came  to  him  that 
even  his  lady,  being  mortal,  must  perish.  At  that 
he  closed  his  eyes  in  fear,  and,  losing  conscious- 
ness of  reality,  seemed  to  see  angry  women's  faces, 
which  cried:  "Thou  shalt  die!  "  His  story  con- 
tinues thus : 

Then  I  beheld  full  many  a  fearful  thing 
In  that  delirious,  phantom-haunted  sleep ; 

And  where  I  seemed  to  be,  I  cannot  guess. 
I  saw  disheveled  women  wandering: 

Some  seemed  to  shriek,  some  piteously  to  weep ; 
Their  cries  were  fiery  shafts  of  mournfulness. 
Then,  bit  by  bit,  the  sun,  in  dire  distress, 
Concealed  itself,  and  stars  were  overhead, 
Appearing  tears  to  shed. 

Each  flying  bird  came  dropping  like  a  flake. 
The  earth  appeared  to  quake. 

Then  came  a  man  all  weak  and  colorless. 
"  Have  ye  not  known?  have  ye  not  heard?  "  he  said; 
"  Your  lady,  she  that  was  so  fair,  is  dead !  " 

Surprise  is  an  effect  contrived  by  Dante  again 
and  again,  always  with  great  potency,  in  the 
Divine  Comedy.  Here  is  an  instance.  On  his 
journey  through  Hell,  the  author  is  conversing, 
in  the  circle  of  the  heretics,  with  the  soul  of  the 
great  Ghibelline  leader,  Farinata  degli  Uberti, 
who  is  standing  erect,  visible  from  the  waist  up, 
in  a  great  tomb  full  of  flames.  Farinata  has  just 
declared  that  Dante's  ancestors,  hostile  to  him  and 
to  his  party,  have  twice  been  scattered  by  him; 
and  the  poet,  awestruck  at  first,  has  plucked  up 
courage  to  retort:  "  If  they  were  banished,  they 

[195] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

returned  from  every  side,  both  times  —  an  art 
which  your  people  never  learned."  At  this  mo- 
ment, before  Farinata  can  reply,  suddenly  ap- 
pears in  the  same  sepulcher  the  shade  of  old 
Cavalcanti,  father  of  Guido,  Dante's  first  friend. 

Then  rose  a  wraith,  uncovered  to  the  chin, 
Beside  the  one  who  first  mine  eye  had  caught ; 
I  think  that  he  was  kneeling  there  within. 

He  stared  about  my  form,  as  if  he  sought 
Some  other  person  who  might  be  with  me ; 
But  when  his  doubtful  hope  had  come  to  naught, 

"  If  high  intelligence  thy  guide  can  be 

Adown  this  dungeon  dark,"  he  weeping  cried, 

"  Where  is  my  son  ?  Why  comes  he  not  with  thee  ?  " 

Startling,  too,  is  the  incursion  of  Brunetto 
Latini.  Virgil  and  Dante  are  walking  along  a 
dike  through  a  desert,  amidst  a  rain  of  fire.  Un- 
expectedly they  meet  a  band  of  spirits,  disfigured 
by  the  burning  flakes,  hastening  in  the  opposite 
direction,  at  the  foot  of  the  embankment;  and,  in 
passing,  each  one  stares  at  Dante  "  as  people  are 
wont  to  stare  at  one  another  in  the  evening  under 
a  new  moon,"  knitting  their  brows,  like  an  aged 
tailor  trying  to  thread  a  needle. 

While  such  a  crowd  was  gazing  at  me  thus, 
One,  recognizing  me,  let  out  a  cry, 
Seizing  my  garment's  hem:  "  How  marvelous!  " 

And  when  he  lifted  up  his  arm,  mine  eye 

His  parched  face  went  searching  thro'  and  thro', 
Until  the  burns  no  longer  could  deny 

My  eager  mind  a  recognition  true. 

Then,  seeking  with  my  face  his  visage  scarred, 
"You  here!  "  I  cried,  "  Master  Brunetto,  you!  " 

[I96] 


WORKMANSHIP 

A  surprise  of  a  different  nature  awaits  the 
reader  in  the  meeting  of  the  two  travelers  with 
the  shade  of  the  poet  Sordello,  on  the  slope  of 
the  mountain  of  Purgatory.  Virgil,  who  is 
puzzled  about  the  path,  espies  him.  "  '  But  see 
yonder,'  he  says, '  a  soul  all  alone,  looking  towards 
us.  It  will  show  us  the  quickest  way.'  We  came 
to  it.  O  Lombard  soul,  how  haughty  and  dis- 
dainful was  thy  mien,  how  dignified  and  slow  the 
turning  of  thine  eyes !  It  spake  not  a  word  to  us, 
but  let  us  go  our  way,  simply  gazing,  like  a  lion 
at  rest.  Yet  Virgil  approached  it,  requesting  it 
to  show  us  the  best  ascent.  The  wraith,  making 
no  reply  to  his  question,  inquired  about  our  coun- 
try and  our  life;  and  my  gentle  leader  was  be- 
ginning '  Mantua  '  .  .  .  ,  when  the  shade,  which 
had  been  all  self-absorbed,  sprang  from  the  place 
where  it  sat,  exclaiming:  '  O  Mantuan,  I  am  Sor- 
dello, from  thy  city!'  And  each  clasped  the 
other  in  his  arms."  The  episode  is  invented  and 
thus  thrillingly  developed  by  Dante  for  the  pur- 
pose of  emphasizing  the  contrast  between  the  love 
of  two  departed  fellow-townsmen  —  strangers  to 
each  other,  and  separated  by  twelve  hundred 
years  —  and  the  mutual  hatred  of  fellow-citizens 
in  the  Italy  of  his  own  day. 

There  are  not  a  few  of  these  abrupt  turns, 
which  affect  us  like  the  flash  of  a  meteor.  Indeed, 
Dante  himself,  in  one  instance,  uses  this  simile: 

As  in  nocturnal  skies  serene  and  pure 

From  time  to  time  a  spark  goes  speeding  fast, 
Startling  the  eyes  which  rested  all  secure, 

t'97] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

And  seems  a  star  from  heaven  to  heaven  cast, 
Except  that  in  the  quarter  where  't  is  lit 
Nothing  is  lost,  and  it  is  quickly  past. 

Antithesis  and  surprise  are  good  devices  for 
keeping  the  reader's  interest  alert;  but  our  poet 
had  another:  suspense.  You  all  know  the  quiver 
of  excitement,  half  pleasurable,  half  painful,  that 
holds  you  spellbound  while  a  thrilling  situation  is 
prolonged  on  the  stage,  and  the  eager  expectation 
that  ensues  if  the  outcome  is  postponed  until 
another  act.  Some  of  you  have  experienced  the 
same  sensation  in  the  intervals  of  a  serial  story 
which,  in  the  good,  old-fashioned  way,  breaks  off 
its  chapters  at  tense  moments.  This  emotion 
Dante  knew  right  well  —  Dante,  who,  as  he  him- 
self more  than  once  declares,  was  always  so  keenly 
inquisitive. 

The  principle  of  suspense  he  uses  again  and 
again  in  his  Divine  Comedy,  especially  at  the  close 
of  his  cantos.  Sometimes  it  assumes  the  form  of 
a  mere  announcement,  as  when  in  Heaven  the  soul 
of  Justinian,  wrapped  in  the  effulgence  that  ema- 
nates from  its  own  happiness,  is  about  to  answer 
Dante's  questions,  "  in  the  fashion  that  my  next 
song  sings." 

E  cosi  chiusa  chiusa  mi  rispose 
Nel  modo  che  il  seguente  canto  canta. 

In  the  ice  at  the  bottom  of  Hell,  two  souls  are 
frozen  together  in  one  hole,  and  one  of  the  two 
is  gnawing  the  back  of  the  other's  head.  They 
are  Count  Ugolino,  once  ruler  of  Pisa,  and  the 

[198] 


WORKMANSHIP 

enemy  who  betrayed  him,  Archbishop  Ruggieri. 
Dante  asks  him  to  explain  his  brutal  rage: 

"  O  thou  who  showest  by  such  beastly  act 
Hatred  for  him  thy  teeth  forever  bite, 
Now  tell  me  why,"  I  said,  "  upon  this  pact, 

That  if  against  him  thy  complaint  be  right, 

Knowing  the  names  of  both,  knowing  the  wrong, 
I  yet  shall  pay  thee  in  the   world  of  light, 

Unless  discourse  forsake  my  withered  tongue." 

Then  the  next  canto  takes  up  the  theme  as  follows : 

The  sinner  lifted  from  its  savage  grind 

His  crunching  mouth,  and  wiped  it  on  the  hair 
Of  t'  other's  head,  which  he  had  spoiled  behind. 

Then  he  began :  "  Thou  wouldst  not  have  me  spare 
My  hopeless  heart  a  tale  that  wakes  its  woe 
In  very  thought,  ere  language  lay  it  bare. 

But  if  my  words  the  vengeful  seed  shall  sow 
Of  infamy  for  this  betrayer  whom  I  gnaw, 
My  speech  and  tears  in  company  shall  flow." 

Sometimes  —  once  in  Purgatory,  five  times  in 
Hell  —  the  closing  lines  of  one  canto  actually 
begin  the  matter  that  is  to  form  the  subject  of  the 
next. 

Meanwhile  around  the  road  we  circling  went, 
Speaking  of  things  which  I  must  leave  behind,. 
Until  we  reacht  the  pathway's  next  descent ; 

And  there  was  Plutus,  foe  to  humankind. 

Thus  ends  Canto  VI;  Canto  VII  treats  of  Plutus, 
god  of  wealth,  and  of  the  unhappy  souls  of  those 
who  misused  riches. 

However,  the  kind  of  suspense  that  I  par- 
ticularly had  in  mind  is  something  more  emotional 

[  199] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

than  this.  An  anxious  moment  is  that  in  which 
the  huge  Antasus,  at  the  edge  of  the  pit,  lifts  up 
the  travelers  in  his  hands  and  sets  them  down  at 
the  bottom  of  the  well.  The  terrified  poet  recalls 
only  the  look  of  the  giant  as  he  stooped  to  pick 
them  up  and  as  he  arose  after  depositing  them 
below.  This  second  posture  he  likens  to  the  hoist- 
ing of  a  mast  into  its  step,  on  a  ship.  The  first 
attitude  is  compared  to  the  appearance  of  the 
Garisenda,  one  of  the  leaning  towers  in  Bologna, 
when  the  observer  is  standing  right  under  the 
slant,  and  a  cloud  passes  in  a  direction  opposite 
to  the  tilt  of  the  tower,  making  the  whole  structure 
appear  to  be  descending  on  the  spectator.  "  As 
is  Garisenda  when  you  gaze  at  it  from  under  its 
slope,  while  a  cloud  passes  over  it  in  such  fashion 
that  it  hangs  contrarywise,  so  Antaeus  looked  to 
me,  who  was  watching  to  see  him  bend;  and  it 
was  an  instant  when  I  should  have  chosen  to  go 
by  some  other  road.  But  lightly  he  set  us  down  in 
that  deep  which  engulfs  Lucifer  and  Judas.  Nor 
did  he  linger  thus  bent,  but  rose  up  like  a  mast 
in  a  ship." 

The  cold  terror  that  is  concentrated  in  this 
moment,  is  in  another  episode  prolonged  — 
namely,  in  the  episode  of  the  opposition  of  the 
demons  at  the  gate  of  the  City  of  Dis,  perhaps 
the  most  chilling  experience  of  the  whole  journey. 
"  Above  the  gates  I  beheld  more  than  a  thousand 
of  the  outcasts  of  Heaven,  who  cried  wrathfully: 
'  Who  is  this  man  who,  without  death,  goes 
through  the  kingdom  of  the  dead?'  And  my 
[  200  ] 


WORKMANSHIP 

wise  teacher  made  a  signal  that  he  would  parley 
with  them  privately.  Then  they  suppressed  a  bit 
their  great  anger,  saying:  '  Do  thou  come  alone, 
and  let  him  go  away,  who  so  presumptuously  hath 
entered  this  realm.  Let  him  return  alone  over 
his  mad  path!  Let  him  see  whether  he  can! 
For  thou  shalt  stay  here,  who  hast  directed  him 
to  this  land  of  darkness.'  Imagine,  reader,  how 
hopeless  I  became  at  the  sound  of  their  accursed 
words;  for  I  thought  never  to  return  here  again. 
'  O  my  dear  leader,'  I  cried,  '  who  more  than  seven 
times  hast  restored  my  safety  and  snatched  me 
from  deep  peril  that  threatened  me,  leave  me  not 
thus  helpless !  And  if  we  are  not  permitted  to 
pass  beyond,  let  us  swiftly  retrace  our  steps  to- 
gether! '  And  the  master  who  had  led  me  thither 
replied  to  me:  '  Fear  not;  for  no  one  can  deprive 
us  of  our  passage  —  it  is  granted  us  by  such  a 
Power!  But  await  me  here,  and  feed  and  fortify 
with  good  hope  thy  downcast  spirit;  for  I  shall 
not  leave  thee  in  the  nether  world.'  With  that, 
he  departs,  my  sweet  father,  and  quits  me  here; 
and  I  am  left  in  doubt,  with  '  yes  '  and  '  no  '  con- 
tending in  my  brain.  I  could  not  hear  what  was 
proposed  to  them,  but  it  was  not  long  before  they 
all  scuttled  back  within,  at  full  speed.  They 
slammed  their  gates  in  my  master's  face,  those 
foes  of  ours;  and  he,  left  without,  turned  back 
to  me  with  slow  steps.  With  eyes  downcast  and 
brows  shorn  of  all  boldness,  he  said,  sighing: 
4  Who  has  denied  me  the  houses  of  sorrow?' 
And  to  me  he  spake :  '  Be  thou  not  terrified,  tho' 
[  201  ] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

I  be  incensed;  for  I  shall  win  the  fight,  whatever 
be  the  round  of  their  defense  within.  This  arro- 
gance of  theirs  is  not  new.  Once  they  displayed 
it  at  a  less  hidden  door,  which  still  remains  with- 
out lock.  Above  it  thou  didst  see  the  words  of 
death.  Down  from  it,  traversing  the  rings  un- 
escorted, is  already  descending  one  who  shall 
open  the  city  for  us.'  .  .  .  He  stood  still  like 
one  listening,  for  his  eye  could  not  take  him  far 
through  the  black  air  and  the  thick  fog.  '  Yet 
we  must  win  the  struggle,'  he  began.  '  If  not  — 
but  think  who  came !  O  how  I  long  for  some  one 
to  join  us! '  .  .  .  And  he  said  more,  but  I  recall 
it  not;  because  my  eye  had  drawn  all  my  being 
to  the  high  tower  with  the  glowing  top,  where, 
in  one  swift  instant,  three  hellish,  blood-stained 
furies  had  arisen.  .  .  .  Each  one  of  them  rent 
her  breast  with  her  claws,  and  beat  herself  with 
her  palms,  and  shrieked  so  loud  that  I  clung  in 
fright  to  the  poet.  '  Let  Medusa  come !  '  cried 
all  three,  staring  down.  '  Then  we  shall  trans- 
form him  to  stone.'  .  .  .  '  Turn  back,  and  keep 
thy  face  covered;  for,  if  the  Gorgon  shows  herself 
and  thou  shouldst  see  her,  there  would  be  no 
more  returning  to  the  life  above.'  Thus  spake 
my  teacher;  and  he  himself  turned  me  around, 
and,  not  trusting  to  my  hands,  covered  my  eyes 
with  his  own."  At  this  critical  moment  a  roar  is 
heard  over  the  waters,  like  a  storm-wind  that 
sweeps  everything  before  it.  '  Virgil  uncovered 
my  eyes,  crying:  '  Now  direct  thy  nerve  of  sight 
over  this  ancient  scum,  in  that  quarter  where  the 
[  202  ] 


WORKMANSHIP 

reek  is  sharpest.'  As  frogs,  at  the  approach  of 
their  enemy,  the  snake,  all  vanish  in  the  water 
and  crouch  upon  the  bottom,  so  I  saw  more  than 
a  thousand  dead  souls  fleeing  before  one  who  was 
walking  over  Styx  with  dry  feet.  .  .  .  Well  I 
knew  that  he  was  a  messenger  from  Heaven,  and 
I  turned  to  my  master,  who  made  a  sign  that  I 
should  bow  to  the  visitor  in  silence.  Ah !  how 
scornful  he  looked!  He  reached  the  gate,  and 
opened  it  with  a  little  wand;  for  there  was  no 
resistance." 

On  two  other  occasions  Dante  is  in  terror  from 
demons,  and  apparently  with  some  reason,  al- 
though his  guide  proves  to  be  an  adequate  pro- 
tector. Once,  when  some  devils  have  actually 
succeeded  in  deceiving  Virgil,  the  poet  is  dis- 
quieted by  the  indignant  look  on  his  leader's  face. 
'  Then  my  teacher  departed  with  long  strides, 
his  countenance  somewhat  clouded  with  wrath. 
So  I  started  after  .  .  .  ,  following  the  prints  of 
his  beloved  feet."  Thus  ends  one  canto;  but 
early  in  the  next,  "  the  poultice  comes  to  the 
wound:  "  for  "  my  leader  turned  to  me  with  that 
sweet  expression  which  I  first  had  seen  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain." 

Even  in  Paradise,  Dante  is  not  always  free  from 
apprehension.  Peering  into  the  light  that  en- 
velops the  soul  of  St.  John,  to  see  whether,  in 
accordance  with  the  old  legend,  the  beloved  dis- 
ciple has  really  been  taken  up  to  Heaven  in  the 
flesh  (like  Christ  and  Mary),  he  is  stricken  with 
blindness.  "  As  is  a  man  who  stares  and  strives 
[  203  ] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

to  see  the  sun  partially  eclipsed,  and  by  seeing 
becomes  sightless,  such  I  became  in  the  presence 
of  that  last  fire;  and  meanwhile  I  heard:  'Why 
dost  thou  dazzle  thyself  to  see  a  thing  which  hath 
no  place  here?  Earth  in  earth  is  my  body,  and 
there  shall  stay  until  our  number  shall  be  equal 
to  the  tale  foreordained.'  ' 

Ah!  what  a  fearful,  wonderful  surprise! 
For  when  I  turned  to  look  on  Beatrice, 
I  could  not  see  her  form  in  any  wise, 

Tho'  near  to  her,  and  in  the  world  of  bliss ! 

The  following  canto,  however,  once  more  brings 
relief;  for  Dante  is  soon  assured  that  his  blinding 
is  only  for  a  little  while :  "  Depend  upon  it,  thy 
sight  is  dazed,  not  dead." 

At  the  close  of  Canto  XXI  of  the  Paradiso, 
the  poet  is  alarmed  at  the  outcry  of  a  company  of 
shining  souls  on  Jacob's  Ladder,  voicing  their 
indignation  at  the  degeneracy  of  modern  prelates, 
as  described  by  one  of  their  number,  Peter 
Damian. 

And  thereupon  I  saw,  from  stair  to  stair, 

A  throng  of  flamelets,  turning,  downward  flow; 
At  every  turn  their  light  appeared  more  fair. 

They  joined  their  mate,  and  halted  there  below  ; 
Then,  shouting,  lifted  up  a  mighty  roar 
Which  cannot  he  compared  to  aught  we  know. 

Its  thunder  stunned  me ;  I  could  hear  no  more. 

Thus  the  situation  is  left  until  Canto  XXII  re- 
sumes the  story.  "  Crushed  with  amazement, 
I  turned  to  my  guide,  like  a  little  child  who  always 
runs  to  her  in  whom  he  puts  most  trust.  And 

[  2°4] 


WORKMANSHIP 

she,  —  like  a  mother,  who  instantly  rescues  her 
pale  and  panting  boy  with  her  voice  which  never 
fails  to  soothe  him,  —  spake  thus  to  me : '  Knowest 
thou  not  that  thou  art  in  Heaven?  And  knowest 
thou  not  that  Heaven  is  all  holy,  and  that  what- 
soever is  done  there  comes  from  righteous  zeal? 
.  .  .  From  this  shout,  hadst  thou  understood  its 
supplication,  thou  wouldst  have  learned  of  the 
retribution  which  thou  shalt  see  before  thy 
death.'  ' 

In  Purgatory,  too,  there  is  a  like  suspense,  and 
a  similar  outcry  —  this  time,  however,  a  shout, 
not  of  reprobation,  but  of  joyful  thanksgiving: 
a  soul  (the  soul  of  the  poet  Statius),  having  com- 
pleted its  penance,  is  free  to  climb  to  Heaven; 
and,  to  celebrate  its  release,  the  mountain  shakes 
and  all  the  spirits  raise  their  voices  in  praise. 
'  We  were  straining  to  cover  as  much  of  the  road 
as  was  permitted  our  strength,  when,  like  some- 
thing falling,  I  felt  the  mountain  tremble.  A 
chill  came  over  me,  such  as  seizes  a  man  who  is 
walking  to  his  death.  Surely  the  isle  of  Delos 
never  quaked  so  hard,  before  Latona  made  her 
nest  in  it,  to  bring  forth  the  twin  eyes  of  the  sky. 
Next  began  on  all  sides  a  shout,  so  loud  that  my 
master  stepped  close  to  me,  saying:  '  Fear  noth- 
ing, while  I  keep  thee.'  All  were  calling  '  Gloria 
Deo  in  excelsis,'  judging  from  what  I  could  catch 
from  the  souls  nearest  me,  whose  cry  I  could 
understand.  We  stood  motionless  and  rapt,  like 
the  shepherds  who  first  heard  that  song,  until  the 
trembling  ceased  and  the  song  was  finished.  Then 
[  205  ] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

we  resumed  our  sacred  way,  gazing  at  the  souls 
extended  on  the  ground,  who  had  already  returned 
to  their  wonted  plaint.  Never  with  such  sharp 
attack  did  any  ignorance  ever  make  me  crave  to 
know  (if  my  memory  in  this  be  not  at  fault)  as 
that  which,  while  I  reflected,  now  assailed  me. 
But  I  dared  not  ask  a  question,  because  of  our 
haste;  nor  could  I  detect  anything  by  myself. 
And  so  I  went  on,  timid  and  thoughtful."  The 
sequel  follows  in  the  next  Canto.  "  That  inborn 
thirst  which  is  never  slaked,  save  with  the  water 
for  which  the  woman  of  Samaria  prayed,  was 
tormenting  me;  and  haste  was  goading  me  after 
my  leader,  over  the  obstructed  way;  and  pity  was 
pricking  me  for  the  punishment,  merited  though 
it  was.  And  lo  !  even  as  Luke  writeth  that  Christ, 
already  risen  from  his  burial  cave,  appeared  to 
the  two  who  were  on  the  road,  a  shade  appeared 
to  us,  approaching  from  behind,  as  we  were 
staring  at  the  prostrate  company  [of  penitent 
souls].  But  we  saw  it  not  until  it  spake  first, 
saying:  'Brothers,  God  give  you  peace!'  We 
turned  at  once;  and  Virgil  replied  with  a  sign  that 
befits  such  words,  and  then  began :  '  May  thou 
be  brought  in  peace  into  the  blessed  council  by 
that  righteous  judgment  which  sentences  me  to 
eternal  banishment!  '  '  What!  '  cried  the  stranger, 
as  we  walked  briskly  on,  '  if  ye  be  shades  that  God 
brooketh  not  above,  who  hath  led  you  so  far  up 
his  stairway?'  And  my  teacher  answered:  'If 
thou  look  at  the  marks  which  the  [guardian] 
angel  traces,  and  which  this  man  beareth  [on  his 
[  206  ] 


WORKMANSHIP 

brow],  thou  shalt  plainly  see  that  it  is  fitting  for 
him  to  abide  with  the  good.  ...  I  was  drawn 
forth  from  the  broad  gullet  of  Hell  to  show  him 
the  way;  and  I  shall  guide  him  as  much  further  as 
my  teaching  can  lead.  But  tell  us,  if  thou  knowest, 
why  the  mountain  gave  such  shakes,  a  moment 
since,  and  why,  even  down  to  its  moist  feet,  all  the 
souls  appeared  to  cry  out  together.' '  Thus  Vir- 
gil puts  to  Statius  (for  the  stranger  is  none  other 
than  the  spirit  just  set  free)  the  very  inquiry  that 
Dante  has  been  aching  but  fearing  to  utter. 

This  question  thro'  the  needle's  eye  did  aim 
Of  my  desire ;  and  so  with  very  hope 
My  raging  thirst  less  ravenous  became. 

Curiosity  it  is,  more  than  apprehension,  that 
torments  the  poet,  when,  on  the  brink  of  a  well- 
nigh  bottomless  cliff  in  Hell,  he  is  waiting  to  see 
what  will  emerge  from  the  darkness  below,  in 
response  to  a  strange  signal  which  Virgil  has 
thrown  down  into  the  void.  The  signal  is  Dante's 
belt.  "  I  had  a  rope  girt  about  me,  with  which 
I  had  once  thought  to  catch  the  leopard  with  the 
painted  hide.  When,  at  my  leader's  command, 
I  had  taken  it  quite  off,  I  handed  it  to  him  knotted 
and  coiled.  Whereupon  he,  swinging  to  the  right, 
threw  it  down  into  the  deep  hole,  some  distance 
out  from  the  edge.  '  Something  curious  must 
surely  respond,'  I  said  to  myself,  '  to  the  curious 
sign  which  my  master  is  so  following  with  his 
eye.'  Ah  me !  how  cautious  men  should  be  in 
the  presence  of  those  who  not  only  see  the  deed 
[  207  ] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

but  with  their  wisdom  look  into  the  thoughts! 
He  said  to  me :  '  Soon  shall  come  up  that  which 
I  expect;  that  which  thy  thought  is  imagining  must 
soon  be  disclosed  to  thy  sight.'  To  a  truth  that 
hath  the  semblance  of  a  lie,  a  man  should  always 
close  his  lips  as  long  as  he  can,  because  without 
his  fault  it  gets  him  shame.  But  here  I  cannot  be 
silent.  By  the  notes  of  this  Comedy,  as  I  hope 
they  be  not  without  long-enduring  favor,  I  swear 
to  thee,  reader,  that  I  saw  swimming  up  through 
the  thick,  dark  air  a  shape  marvelous  to  the 
stoutest  heart,  as  one  returns  to  the  surface  who 
dives  below  sometimes  to  loose  an  anchor  that  is 
caught  on  a  reef  or  something  else  hidden  in  the 
sea  —  spreading  out  at  the  top  and  contracted  at 
the  feet."  What  finally  does  emerge  (in  the  next 
Canto),  after  all  these  preliminaries,  is  the  mon- 
ster Geryon,  embodiment  of  Fraud  and  keeper 
of  the  eighth  circle. 

Attentive  study  of  this  long  preparatory  pas- 
sage reveals  a  carefully  constructed  climax,  the 
details  being  so  arranged  as  progressively  to  whet 
the  reader's  interest:  first,  Dante's  wonder;  then 
Virgil's  mysterious  hint;  next,  the  suggestion  of 
a  thing  beyond  belief;  finally,  the  impression  of 
impending  horror  and  the  vague  image  of  an 
awful  unknown  something  gradually  taking  form. 
Many  artistic  climaxes  could  be  pointed  out  in 
Dante's  work,  but  the  unfolding  of  them  would 
require  too  lengthy  quotation.  I  shall  limit  myself 
to  a  few  obvious  cases. 

Near  the  close  of  each  of  the  three  great 
[208] 


WORKMANSHIP 

divisions  of  the  Divine  Comedy,  there  is  a  cun- 
ningly elaborated  scale,  leading  up  to  the  appear- 
ance of  Satan,  of  Beatrice,  and  of  God.  As  we 
approach  the  bottom  of  Hell,  we  reach  a  ring  of 
giants  —  Nimrod  and  the  Titans  —  surrounding 
the  mouth  of  the  central  well.  At  the  foot  of  this 
pit,  a  lake  of  ice,  imprisoning  the  souls  of  hideous 
traitors.  Drawing  close  to  the  middle  of  the 
round  pool,  we  see  looming  up  in  the  darkness  a 
form  too  big  and  too  awful  for  belief;  and  a 
bitterly  cold  blast  sweeps  upon  us.  Our  poet  takes 
refuge  behind  his  master,  and  becomes  aware  that 
under  his  feet,  in  the  ice,  are  souls  in  various 
twisted  postures.  Suddenly  Virgil  steps  aside, 
and  Dante,  full  in  sight  of  the  monstrous  Lucifer, 
stands  shivering,  neither  dead  nor  alive.  Then 
follows  the  description  of  the  three-faced  crea- 
ture. 

In  the  latter  cantos  of  the  Purgatorlo  is  the 
lovely  picture  of  the  Garden  of  Eden,  fresh  with 
the  shade  of  endlessly  varied  trees,  musical  with 
birds  and  the  rustle  of  leaves,  fragrant  with  eter- 
nal flowers.  There,  beside  the  clear,  rippling  rill, 
appears,  singing  and  picking  blossoms,  the  figure 
of  Matilda,  personification  of  the  charm  of  youth 
and  innocence.  Next  comes  into  sight  the  majestic 
pageant  of  the  Church,  and  in  its  midst  a  chariot 
from  which  rise  a  hundred  angels,  scattering  lilies 
in  the  air.  Through  this  rain  of  flowers  Beatrice 
little  by  little  becomes  visible.  "  Ere  this  I  have 
seen,  at  the  beginning  of  day,  the  eastern  quarter 
all  rosy  and  the  rest  of  the  sky  beautifully  clear; 
[  209] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

and  the  sun's  face  rising  so  shadowed  that, 
screened  by  mists,  the  eye  could  bear  it  a  long 
time.  Thus,  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  flowers 
which  rose  from  angel  hands  and  fell  again  within 
and  without  [the  chariot],  a  lady  appeared  to 
me  .  .  .  clad  in  the  color  of  living  flame."  And 
Dante,  before  he  sees  her  face,  recognizes  her  by 
the  love  that  floods  his  heart. 

No  further  witness  was  required  of  sight : 

By  some  mysterious  power  that  flowed  from  her, 
Once  more  of  bygone  love  I  felt  the  might. 

When  Dante,  near  the  consummation  of  his 
journey,  emerges  from  the  universe  of  matter 
into  the  world  of  spirit,  his  first  impression  is  of 
the  boundless,  everlasting  outpour  of  divine  grace, 
which  seems  like  a  vast  river  of  light.  But  this 
river  presently  transforms  itself  into  a  round 
ocean  of  golden  brightness,  about  which  are 
gathered  all  the  blest  and  the  innumerable  flutter- 
ing host  of  angels,  all  illumined  by  a  beam  from 
above.  Accustoming  his  sight,  by  degrees,  to 
all  this  brilliancy,  the  poet  gradually  follows  up 
this  ray  with  his  eyes,  until  God,  the  source  of 
light,  is  revealed  to  him. 

O  grace  abounding!  thro'  the  endless  light 
Thou  gavest  me  full  confidence  to  look, 
Till  quencht  within  the  fire  was  mortal  sight. 

[From  Dante,  p.  373.] 

In  the  vision  of  Satan  at  the  end  of  the  Inferno, 
of  Beatrice  near  the  close  of  the  Purgatorw,  of 
God  at  the  very  conclusion  of  the  Paradiso,  we 
[  210] 


WORKMANSHIP 

find  illustrated  another  structural  principle  char- 
acteristic of  Dante's  genius,  the  principle  of 
balance.  Furthermore,  the  figure  of  Satan,  the 
last  thing  seen  in  Hell,  is  so  designed  as  to  balance 
the  conception  of  God,  who  is  the  end  and  goal 
of  the  poet's  vision  of  Heaven.  The  three  Persons 
of  the  Holy  Trinity  —  Father,  Son,  and  Holy 
Ghost,  or  Power,  Wisdom,  and  Love  —  have 
their  counterpart  in  the  three  faces  of  the  Evil 
One.  The  sallow  visage  on  the  right,  which  holds 
Cassius  in  its  mouth,  expresses  weakness,  the 
opposite  of  Power;  on  the  left,  the  black  one, 
chewing  Brutus,  signifies  ignorance,  opposed  to 
Wisdom;  the  red  one  in  the  middle,  from  whose 
maw  dangles  Judas  Iscariot,  stands  for  hate, 
which  is  contrary  to  Love.  The  Devil,  looming 
up  in  enormous  bulk,  embedded  in  ice  and  rock 
at  the  centre  of  the  earth,  weighed  down  by  all 
the  pressure  of  the  universe,  is  inert,  save  for  the 
flapping  of  his  wings  and  the  crunching  of  his 
jaws.  The  Lord,  free  from  all  encumbrance  of 
matter,  outside  of  space  and  time,  is  ceaselessly 
and  eternally  active,  imparting  life  and  motion  to 
the  world,  sustaining  the  universe  which  he  has 
created. 

Another  balanced  pair  —  though  here  the  re- 
lation is  less  evident  —  is  that  of  Matilda  and 
St.  Bernard,  the  former  symbolizing  the  highest 
stage  of  the  active  life,  a  state  of  innocence  and 
joy,  the  latter  typifying  the  highest  stage  of  the 
contemplative  life,  direct  intuition  of  God.  Ma- 
tilda, a  lovely  maiden,  appears  in  the  Earthly 

[211] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Paradise;  St.  Bernard,  a  venerable  elder,  in  the 
Heavenly  Paradise.  Both  present  themselves  to 
initiate  Dante  into  the  mysteries  of  their  respective 
abodes.  Let  us  look  at  the  two  pictures. 

Dante,  with  Virgil  and  Statius,  has  been  wander- 
ing, full  of  wonder,  through  the  fragrant  forest 
of  Eden,  and  now  gazes  across  the  clear,  cool 
stream  that  bars  his  progress.  "  And  yonder  ap- 
peared before  me,  as  sometimes  a  thing  suddenly 
does  appear,  which  for  amazement  turns  away 
every  other  thought,  a  lady  all  alone,  who  walked 
singing  and  selecting  flower  from  flower,  with 
which  her  path  was  all  painted  over.  '  Pray,  fair 
lady,  who  dost  bask  in  the  beams  of  love,  —  if  I 
am  to  trust  to  looks,  which  are  usually  witnesses 
of  the  heart,  —  be  disposed  to  come  forward,' 
said  I  to  her,  '  toward  this  current,  far  enough  for 
me  to  understand  what  thou  singest.  Thou  dost 
recall  to  me  what  Proserpina  was  like,  and  where 
she  was,  at  the  moment  when  her  mother  lost  her 
and  she  lost  the  springtime.'  As  a  lady,  dancing, 
turns,  with  feet  close  to  the  ground  and  to  each 
other,  scarcely  putting  one  before  its  mate,  so 
she  turned  towards  me,  on  the  scarlet  and  yellow 
flowerets,  even  as  a  maid  who  casts  down  her 
modest  eyes;  and  she  satisfied  my  prayer,  drawing 
so  near  that  the  sweet  music  came  to  me  with  all 
its  meaning.  As  soon  as  she  had  reached  the  spot 
where  the  grasses  were  already  wet  by  the  ripples 
of  the  pretty  rill,  she  granted  me  the  boon  of  lift- 
ing her  eyes.  I  do  not  believe  such  light  shone 
beneath  the  lids  of  Venus,  when  she  was  wounded 
[212  ] 


WORKMANSHIP 

by  her  son  —  quite  differently  from  his  habit. 
She  was  laughing,  erect  on  the  other  bank,  trail- 
ing from  her  hands  variously  colored  flowers 
which  that  high  country  produces  without  seed. 
Three  steps  apart  the  stream  held  us;  but  the 
Hellespont,  in  the  place  where  Xerxes  crossed 
(even  now  a  warning  to  all  human  arrogance), 
did  not  suffer  more  hatred  from  Leander,  for 
swelling  between  Sestos  and  Abydos,  than  this 
brooklet  suffered  from  me,  because  its  waters  did 
not  open  then." 

For  a  sight  of  St.  Bernard,  we  must  mount  from 
the  Garden  of  Eden  to  the  mystic  white  Rose  of 
Paradise.  Beatrice,  who  has  been  at  Dante's  side, 
suddenly  vanishes,  as  Virgil  had  disappeared  in 
Eden  when  his  mission  was  fulfilled.  The  poet 
turns  to  question  his  guide,  and  sees  in  her  place 
an  unknown  figure.  "  One  thing  I  expected,  and 
another  came:  I  thought  to  see  Beatrice;  but  what 
I  beheld  was  an  elder,  clad  like  the  children  of 
glory.  A  smiling  light  of  kindness  overspread  his 
eyes  and  cheeks,  with  a  paternal  look,  such  as 
befits  a  tender  father.  And  'Where  is  she?'  I 
exclaimed.  To  which  he  replied:  'To  fulfill  all  thy 
desire,  Beatrice  took  me  from  my  place.  If  thou 
shalt  look  up  at  the  third  tier  from  the  highest 
row,  thou  shalt  see  her  again,  on  the  throne  which 
her  merits  have  won  for  her.'  Without  answer- 
ing, I  lifted  up  my  eyes,  and  saw  her  crowned  with 
a  crown  of  her  own  making,  as  she  reflected  from 
herself  the  eternal  rays.  .  .  .  And  the  sacred 
elder  spake :  '  In  order  that  thou  perfectly  com- 

[213] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

plete  thy  journey,  to  which  prayer  and  holy  love 
have  sent  me,  fly  with  thine  eyes  over  this  garden; 
for  the  sight  of  it  will  prepare  thy  vision  to  mount 
higher  up  the  beam  of  light  divine.  And  the 
Queen  of  Heaven,  for  whom  I  am  all  afire  with 
love,  will  grant  us  every  grace ;  for  I  am  her  faith- 
ful Bernard.'  As  one  who  cometh,  perhaps  from 
Croatia,  to  see  our  Veronica  [the  true  likeness  of 
the  Saviour]  ;  and,  having  heard  of  it  so  many 
years,  cannot  look  enough,  but  says  in  his  thought, 
as  long  as  the  image  is  shown,  '  My  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  true  God,  now  was  thy  face  indeed  like 
this?'  so  was  I,  as  I  gazed  on  the  living  love  of 
him  who,  in  this  world,  by  contemplation  tasted 
that  peace." 

Symmetry,  balance,  antithesis,  climax — these 
great  architectural  contrivances,  as  we  have  seen, 
are  abundantly  exemplified  in  Dante's  planning, 
as  well  as  the  lesser  devices  of  surprise  and  sus- 
pense. In  some  cases  the  suspense  is  never  broken : 
strange  things  are  purposely  left  unexplained,  and 
the  reader  is  left  to  form  his  own  conjectures. 
This  effect  of  mystery  we  find  most  frequently  in 
Hell.  On  the  shore  of  Acheron,  Charon  has  re- 
fused to  ferry  the  poet  across,  because  he  is  a 
living  man. 

Then  suddenly  the  country  dark  and  drear 
Did  quake  so  hard  that  memory  moisteneth 
My  body  still  with  sweat,  for  very  fear. 

The  tearful  ground  sent  forth  a  gusty  breath, 
From  which  a  flashing  scarlet  light  did  leap, 
Which  stunned  my  senses,  even  unto  death. 

I  fell  to  earth  like  one  who  drops  asleep. 

[2I4] 


WORKMANSHIP 

When  he  recovers  consciousness,  he  finds  himself 
on  the  other  side,  transported  we  know  not  how. 
A  little  later,  as  the  travelers  are  circling  along 
the  bank  of  Styx,  they  come  at  last  to  the  foot  of 
a  lofty  tower.  "  I  say,  going  on  with  my  story, 
that  long  before  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  high 
tower,  our  eyes  turned  up  to  its  top,  because  of 
two  little  flames  which  we  saw  put  there;  and  we 
saw  another  returning  the  signal  from  so  far  away 
that  the  eye  could  scarce  take  it  in.  Then,  turning 
to  the  font  of  all  wisdom,  I  said:  '  What  does  this 
mean?  and  what  does  that  other  fire  reply?  and 
who  are  the  people  who  have  set  them?  '  These 
questions  remained  unanswered. 

Mysterious  reticence  is  traditional  in  oracular 
utterances.  We  find  it  in  Dante's  rather  numerous 
prophecies.  In  the  real  ones  —  that  is,  in  those 
which  foretell  things  still  in  the  future  when  the 
author  wrote  —  mystery  was  of  course  impera- 
tive, unless  the  poet  were  willing  to  incur  the  risk 
of  turning  out  to  be  a  false  fortune-teller.  For 
instance,  Dante  expected  great  things  of  Can 
Grande  della  Scala,  younger  brother  of  one  of 
the  poet's  patrons  early  in  his  exile,  himself  a 
patron  toward  the  end  of  Dante's  life;  but  as  the 
would-be  prophet  could  not  truly  know  what  fate 
had  in  store,  he  had  to  express  his  hopes  obscurely. 
In  the  heaven  of  Mars,  the  soul  of  Dante's  ances- 
tor Cacciaguida  forecasts  the  poet's  exile,  his  so- 
journ with  the  Lombard  family  of  la  Scala,  his 
first  acquaintance  with  Can  Grande,  then  only  nine 
years  old,  and  the  mighty  deeds  which  this  future 

[215] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

hero  is  destined  to  do.  "  '  Wait  for  him  and  his 
kindnesses.  By  him  many  people  shall  be  shifted, 
rich  and  beggars  exchanging  conditions.  And 
thou  shalt  bear  away  written  of  him  in  thy  mem- 
ory, but  thou  shalt  not  tell  — '  And  he  told  me 
things  unbelievable  even  to  those  who  shall  see 
them." 

Skilful  restraint  often  suggests  more  than  any 
explicit  discourse  could  impart.  Suggestion,  con- 
veying the  impression  of  something  far  beyond 
the  power  of  words,  is  one  of  the  finest  tools  of 
our  poetic  craftsman;  and  with  an  example  of  its 
use  I  shall  conclude  this  account.  He  employs  it 
especially  in  the  Paradiso,  where  he  has  to  do  with 
things  outside  the  world  of  the  senses.  "  Hence- 
forth," he  declares,  "  my  language,  even  in  that 
which  I  remember,  shall  be  briefer  than  that  of  a 
babe  that  still  wets  its  tongue  at  the  breast." 
"Oh!  how  short  and  weak  is  speech,"  he  cries, 
"  compared  to  my  idea !  And  even  that,  com- 
pared to  what  I  saw,  is  such  that  '  little  '  is  all  too 
insignificant  a  word."  Gazing  on  the  beauty  of 
Beatrice,  enhanced  as  it  is  by  her  approach  to  her 
heavenly  home,  he  exclaims : 

If  what  hath  e'er  been  said  of  her  could  all 
Combine  into  a  single  praise  and  blend, 
For  this  occasion  it  would  be  too  small. 

The  beauty  now  before  me  doth  transcend 
Not  only  human  thirst:  the  Infinite 
Alone  can  drink  it  to  the  very  end. 

This  test  hath  found  me  wanting,  I  admit, 
Far  worse  than  any  one  of  poet  kind 
Was  ever  vanquished  by  his  hardest  bit. 

[216] 


WORKMANSHIP 

E'en  as  the  sun  the  feeblest  eye  doth  blind, 
E'en  so  the  sweetness  of  her  smile  doth  chase 
Itself  from  memory,  leaving  naught  behind. 

Since  first  in  mortal  life  I  saw  her  face 
Until  I  saw  it  thus  supremely  blest, 
My  song  hath  constantly  pursued  her  trace ; 

But  now  my  fond  pursuit  must  come  to  rest  — 
Pursuit  of  loveliness  in  poesy  — 
Like  every  artist  who  hath  done  his  best. 


[  217  ] 


LECTURE   VIII 
DICTION 

Apollo,  pray,  for  my  remaining  task, 
O !  make  me  such  a  vessel  of  thy  might 
As  they  must  be,  for  laurels  dear  who  ask. 

Till  now,  enough  has  been  a  single  height 
Of  old  Parnassus;  now  I  need  the  two 
To  succor  me  in  this,  my  final  flight. 

Enter  my  bosom  now,  and  breathe  anew, 
As  when  from  out  the  scabbard  of  the  skin 
Thy  conquest  Marsyas'  bleeding  body  drew. 

O  power  divine,  let  me  thy  favor  win 
Until  to  tell  the  blessedness  I  see 
Fading  from  memory's  chambers,  I  begin. 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  seek  thy  favorite  tree 
And  crown  myself  with  thy  beloved  bay, 
Made  worthy  by  my  subject  and  by  thee. 

So  seldom,  Father,  is  it  pluckt  to-day 

(O  shame  upon  the  base  desires  of  men!) 
To  decorate  or  victory  or  lay, 

That  joy  should  swell  in  joyous  Delphi  when 
The  leaf  that  keeps  immortal  Daphne's  name 
Awakes  the  hankering  of  poet's  pen. 

A  tiny  spark  may  light  a  glowing  flame ; 
And  after  me  a  louder  prayer  may  rise, 
And  Cyrrha's  echo  may  repeat  the  same. 

With  this  impassioned  supplication  to  Apollo, 
or  heavenly  inspiration,  Dante  launches  upon  his 
tale  of  Paradise.     At  the  beginning  of  his  Pur- 
[218] 


DICTION 

gatory,  too,  he  prays  for  help,  this  time  from 
Calliope,  genius  of  poetic  art: 

The  second  realm  of  spirits  I  shall  sing, 
Where  penitent  the  soul  itself  doth  shrive 
And  thus  prepares  its  heavenward  way  to  wing. 

But  now  be  Poetry,  sunk  in  death,  alive, 
O  holy  Muses !    I  am  in  your  care. 
And  let  Calliope  a  bit  revive, 

And  play,  in  harmony  with  me,  that  air 

Which  Pieros'  wretched  daughters  once  did  hear 
So  grandly  swell,  it  drove  them  to  despair. 

As  we  read  the  divine  poem,  we  seem,  from 
time  to  time,  to  hear  the  strumming  of  the  Muse, 

As  skilfully  guitar  accompanies 

A  skilful  singer,  with  its  quivering  string, 
And  thus  the  song  hath  double  power  to  please. 

E  come  a  buon  cantor  buon  citarista 
Fa  seguitar  lo  guizzo  della  corda 
In  che  piu  di  piacer  lo  canto  acquista. 

With  the  tinkle  of  the  harp  and  the  guitar,  we 
hear  the  tinkle  of  the  morning  bell  which  the  clock 
rings : 

And  as  the  clock,  which  early  summons  all 

And  wakes  the  Church,  the  Bride  of  God  above, 
To  woo  the  Bridegroom  with  her  matin  call  — 

The  clock,  where  push  and  pull  the  wheels  that  move, 
And  ting-a-ling  so  musically  sing, 
The  quick  responsive  spirit  swells  with  love : 

Thus  I  beheld  revolve  the  glorious  ring, 
Voice  answering  unto  voice,  in  perfect  peace 
And  sweetest  concord,  past  imagining, 

Save  yonder,  where  delight  can  never  cease. 

[  219  1 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

Indi  come  orologio  che  ne  chiami 
Nell'  ora  che  la  sposa  di  Dio  surge 
A  mattinar  lo  sposo  perche  1'ami, 

Che  1'una  parte  1'altra  tira  ed  urge, 
Tin  tin  sonando  con  si  dolce  nota 
Che  il  ben  disposto  spirto  d'amor  turge: 

Cos!  vid'io  la  gloriosa  rota 

Muoversi,  e  render  voce  a  voce  in  tempra 
Ed  in  dolcezza  ch'esser  non  puo  nota, 

Se  non  cola,  dove  gioir  s'  insempra. 

The  clock  was  still  a  thing  new  and  strange  enough 
to  be  a  source  of  pleasurable  wonder.  Rings  of 
souls,  dancing  around  at  greater  and  less  speed, 
are  compared  to  wheels  in  clockwork: 

Just  as  the  wheels  that  regulate  a  clock 
Revolve  so  different,  to  the  watchful  eye, 
One  flying  seems,  one  still  as  any  stock. 

I  have  quoted  all  these  passages,  not  so  much 
because  they  speak  of  harmony  as  because  by  their 
sound  and  suggestion  they  create  it.  Artistic 
balance,  harmony  of  sound,  of  phrasing,  of  senti- 
ment: that  is  the  secret  of  the  pervasive,  soothing 
charm  of  Dante  in  his  gentler  moments. 

What  then  I  heard  imprest  me  like  the  thing, 
The  very  thing  that  always  strikes  the  ear 
When  organs  play  and  people  stand  and  sing, 

And  now  we  lose  the  words  and  now  we  hear. 

Tale  imagine  appunto  mi  rendea 

Cio  ch'  io  udiva  qual  prender  si  suole 
Quando  a  cantar  con  organi  si  stea, 

Ch'  or  si  or  no  s'intendon  le  parole. 

[  22O  ] 


DICTION 

Thus  it  is  when  we  read  Dante  for  the  first 
time  —  indeed,  even  for  the  twentieth  time :  the 
meaning  of  the  words  now  is  plain,  now  elusive, 
but  the  majestic  music  of  the  verse  sounds  on  like 
a  mighty  organ,  suggesting  things  beyond  our 
present  ken. 

And  thence,  as  cometh  to  the  listening  ear 

Sweet  harmony  from  organ  pipes,  there  comes 
Before  mine  eyes  the  time  that  draweth  near. 

Da  indi  si  come  viene  ad  orecchia 
Dolce  armonia  da  organo,  mi  viene 
A  vista  il  tempo  che  ti  s'apparecchia. 

These  are  the  words  of  Dante's  ancestor,  Caccia- 
guida,  in  the  sphere  of  Mars.  In  this  same 
Heaven  of  Mars,  the  shining  souls  of  innumer- 
able Crusaders,  grouped  in  a  gigantic  Cross,  all 
join  in  one  sweet,  distant  song,  a  song  whose 
loveliness  transcends  human  understanding: 

As  harp  or  viol,  tuned  to  harmony 

Of  many  strings,  doth  tinkle  sweet  and  shy 
To  one  who  catches  not  the  melody, 

Thus  from  the  lights  appearing  in  the  sky 
There  swept  along  the  Cross  a  strain  of  song 
That  baffled  sense,  but  lifted  me  on  high. 

E  come  giga  ed  arpa,  in  tempra  tesa 
Di  molte  corde,  fa  dolce  tintinno 
A  tal  da  cui  la  nota  non  e  intesa, 

Cos!  dai  lumi  che  H  m'apparinno 
S'accogliea  per  la  croce  una  melode 
Che  mi  rapiva  senza  intender  1'inno. 
[  221  ] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Kindliness  it  is  which  bids  these  spirits  interrupt 
their  hymn,  that  Dante  and  Cacciaguida  may  meet 
and  hold  converse  together. 

It  bade  that  dulcet  lyre  its  music  cease, 

And  stilled  those  holy  strings,  which  Heaven's  hand 
So  dextrously  doth  tighten  and  release. 

Silenzio  pose  a  quella  dolce  lira, 
E  fece  qu'ietar  le  sante  corde 
Che  la  destra  del  cielo  allenta  e  tira. 

Silence  just  as  sudden  falls  upon  St.  Peter, 
St.  James,  and  St.  John,  whose  dazzlingly  bright 
spirits  have  been  singing  and  circling  about  the 
poet: 

Stopt  sudden  at  the  word  the  fiery  round, 

And  stopt  the  concert  sweet  they  made  together 
(Three  spirits  breathing  forth  harmonious  sound), 

As,  at  the  threat  of  weariness  or  weather, 
The  oars  that  rhythmic  cut  the  sea  before, 
When  boatswain  pipes,  all  hold  themselves  in  tether. 

A  questa  voce  1'infiammato  giro 
Si  quieto  con  esso  il  dolce  mischio 
Che  si  facea  del  suon  del  trino  spiro, 

Si  come,  per  cessar  fatica  e  rischio, 
Li  remi,  pria  nell'acqua  ripercossi, 
Tutti  si  posan  al  sonar  d'un  fischio. 

A  mighty  choir  singing  in  unison  we  have  heard 
in  Mars,  a  harmony  of  three  voices  in  the  starry 
firmament;  now  let  us  listen  to  a  soloist  with  a 
choral  accompaniment,  compared  to  a  soul  that 
shines  bright  against  the  gleaming  orb  of  Venus : 
[  222  ] 


DICTION 

As  spark  within  a  flame  is  plain  to  see, 
As  voice  within  a  voice  is  plain  to  hear, 
When  one  is  still  and  one  doth  flit  and  flee, 

Thus  lights  within  the  brightness  did  appear, 
With  different  swiftness  circling — I  believe, 
According  as  their  heavenly  sight  is  clear. 

E  come  in  fiamma  favilla  si  vede, 
E  come  in  voce  voce  si  discerne, 
Quando  una  e  ferma  e  1'altra  va  e  riede, 

Vid'  io  in  essa  luce  altre  lucerne 
Moversi  in  giro  piu  e  men  correnti 
Al  modo,  credo,  di  lor  viste  eterne. 

The  harmony  that  continually  resounds  in 
Dante's  Heaven  is,  of  course,  a  symbol  of  the 
spiritual  harmony  of  the  blest.  Every  soul  sees 
God  in  its  own  way,  each  enjoys  its  own  degree 
of  beatitude  —  some  higher,  some  lower,  but  all 
content,  and  all  together  forming  one  vast  celestial 
symphony  of  happiness.  "  Now  I  see,"  exclaims 
the  poet,  "  how  everywhere  in  Heaven  is  Para- 
dise, although  God's  grace  doth  not  descend 
equally  on  all."  The  heavenly  concord  and  the 
heavenly  joy  —  joy  complete  to  the  utmost  ca- 
pacity of  each  soul  —  naturally  express  themselves 
in  music: 

Within  the  ones  that  first  to  meet  me  came, 
Hosanna  rang  so  sweet  that  since  that  hour 
I  ceaselessly  have  longed  to  hear  the  same. 

E  dentro  a  quei  che  piu  innanzi  appariro 
Sonava  Osanna  si  che  unque  poi 
Di  riudir  non  fui  senza  disiro. 

[  223  ] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

The  angel  Gabriel  sings,  flying  like  a  ring  of  light 
about  the  Blessed  Virgin : 

The  sweetest  tune  we  hear  on  earthly  shore, 
Which  closest  draws  the  soul  it  doth  inspire, 
Would  seem  a  rifted  cloud's  tempestuous  roar, 

If  likened  to  the  music  of  that  lyre. 

Qualunque  melodia  piu  dolce  suona 
Quaggiu,  e  piu  a  se  1'anima  tira, 
Parrebbe  nube  che  squarciata  tuona, 

Comparata  al  sonar  di  quella  lira. 

The  vowel  coloring  in  many  of  Dante's  lyrics, 
and  in  some  of  the  episodes  of  the  Commedia 
(notably  that  of  Francesca  da  Rimini),  beautiful 
as  it  is,  is  too  subtle  to  be  analyzed.  It  does  its 
work,  but  the  reader  knows  not  how  nor  why. 
The  effect  can  be  consciously  appreciated  only 
after  frequent  reading  aloud.  It  can  be  more 
easily  caught  in  short  snatches,  such  as  those 
which  I  have  quoted,  or  such  as  the  following: 

lo  venni  in  loco  d'ogni  luce  muto, 

Che  mugghia  come  fa  mar  per  tempesta, 
Se  da  contrari  venti  e  combattuto. 

I  reacht  a  spot  where  every  light  is  dumb ; 
It  bellows  like  the  sea  tempestuous, 
When  blown  by  blasts  which  there  to  battle  come. 

[From  Dante,  p.  299.] 

The  key-note   is  given  by  the   u   in  luce,   muto, 
mugghia,  combattuto,  suggestive  of  the  low  roar 
of  the  storm-wind,  and  reinforced  by  the  m  of 
muto,  mugghia,  mar,  tempesta,  combattuto. 
[224] 


DICTION 

lo  venni  in  loco  d'ogni  luce  muto, 

Che  mugghia  come  fa  mar  per  tempesta, 
Se  da  contrari  venti  e  combattuto. 

In  another  passage,  the  echoing  rumble  of  a  dis- 
tant waterfall  sounds  like  the  hum  of  a  beehive : 

Gia  era  in  loco  ove  s'  udia  il  rimbombo 
Dell'  acqua  che  cadea  nell'  altro  giro, 
Simile  a  quel  che  1'arnie  fanno  rombo. 

In  the  following  translation,  having  at  my  dis- 
posal no  such  effective  words  as  rimbombo  and 
rombo,  I  have  distributed  the  reverberative  sug- 
gestion: 

Now  we  had  come  where  we  could  hear  the  drum 
Of  echoing  waters  tumbling  down  below, 
Which  rumbled  like  the  busy  beehive's  hum. 

More  subtle  is  the  impression  of  the  following 
lines,  telling  of  the  swift  departure  of  some  shin- 
ing souls,  which,  like  rapid  sparks,  "  veiled  them- 
selves with  sudden  distance  "  -  a  wonderful 
figure,  which  I  shall  not  attempt  to  reproduce  in 
verse : 

E  quasi  velocissime  faville 

Mi  si  velar  di  subita  distanza. 

The  sparkle  of  the  I  in  "  veloc/sszme  fav/lle  mi 
si  "...  fades  into  the  deep  a  and  //  of  "  velar 
di  s//bita  distanza." 

Another  factor  in  Dante's  suggestiveness  is  the 
repetition  of  words  fraught  with  associations  of 
the   mood   which   the   author   wishes   to    induce : 
[  225  ] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

for  instance,  in  the  Francesca  passage,  the  abund- 
ance of  such  tender  and  sad  terms  as  amor,  amar, 
amante,  dolce,  placer,  pace,  dolore,  doloroso, 
lagrimar  wonderfully  enhances  the  emotional  im- 
pressiveness  of  the  story  itself. 

Amor,  che  a  nullo  amato  amar  perdona, 
Mi  prese  del  costui  piacer  si  forte 
Che,  come  vedi,  ancor  non  m'  abbandona. 

Amor  condusse  noi  ad  una  morte. 

In  a  very  different  strain  is  the  sonnet  in  which 
the  poet  regrets  having  wasted  his  rhetorical  efforts 
on  an  impervious  female  —  perhaps  Lady  Philos- 
ophy, perhaps  a  woman  of  flesh  and  blood  —  and 
emphasizes  his  impatience  by  repetition  of  the 
angry  word  maledico,  "  I  curse."  "  I  curse  the 
day  when  first  I  saw  the  light  of  your  treach- 
erous eyes,  and  the  moment  when  you  came  to 
the  crest  of  my  heart  to  pluck  the  soul  from  it 
And  I  curse  the  loving  file,  the  polisher  of  words 
and  pretty  metaphors,  which  I  have  invented  and 
set  to  rime  for  you,  to  make  the  world  honor  you 
forever  more.  And  I  curse  my  stubborn  memory, 
which  is  sure  to  keep  that  which  is  destroying  me 
—  your  beauteous  and  cruel  face,  for  whose  sake 
Love  is  often  condemned.  Wherefore  doth  every- 
one laugh  at  him  and  me,  who  hope  to  rob  Fortune 
of  her  wheel." 

Io  maledico  il  di  ch'  io  vidi  im  prima 
La  luce  de'  vostri  occhi  traditori 

E  '1  punto  che  veniste  in  cima 

Del  core  a  trarne  1'anima  di  fuori. 

[226] 


DICTION 

E  maledico  1'amorosa  lima 

C'ha  pulito  i  miei  detti  e  i  bei  colori 
Ch'  io  ho  per  voi  trovati  e  messi  in  rima, 

Per  far  che  il  mondo  mai  sempre  v'onori. 
E  maledico  la  mia  mente  dura, 

Ch'  e  ferma  di  tener  quel  che  m'uccide: 
Cioe  la  bella  e  rea  vostra  figura, 
Per  cui  Amor  sovente  si  spergiura; 

Sicche  ciascun  di  lui  e  di  me  ride, 
Che  credo  tor  la  rota  alia  Ventura. 

Whatever  regrets  Dante  may  have  felt  about 
his  "  loving  file,  the  polisher  of  words  and  pretty 
metaphors,"  we  surely  need  feel  none.  The  meta- 
phors and  similes  that  his  file  has  polished  to  per- 
fection constitute  perhaps  the  most  obvious  attrac- 
tion, not  only  of  his  lyrics,  but  still  more  of  his 
Divine  Comedy.  One  could  dwell  long  on  this 
branch  of  his  art;  but,  as  it  does  not  strictly  belong 
to  the  present  subject,  I  must  content  myself  with 
a  few  specimens.  There  is  a  graceful  comparison 
(used  later  by  Boccaccio)  in  Dante's  ode  Tre 
donne  intorno  al  cor  mi  son  venute.  One  of  the 
three  allegorical  ladies  rests  her  face  in  her  hand, 
drooping  "  like  a  plucked  rose." 

Dolesi  1'una  con  parole  molto 

E  'n  sulla  man  si  posa 

Come  succisa  rosa  ; 
II  nudo  braccio,  di  dolor  colonna, 
Sente  1'oraggio  che  cade  dal  volto. 

One  lady,  answering  in  tearful  wise, 

Doth  face  on  hand  repose, 

E'en  as  a  severed  rose; 
Her  bare  supporting  arm,  pillar  of  grief, 
Doth  feel  the  shower  that  falleth  from  her  ees. 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

Just  now  we  were  speaking  of  bees.  They  were 
not  the  only  insects  that  the  poet  recognized:  in 
one  passage  he  refers  to  the  hour  of  dusk  as  "  the 
time  when  the  fly  gives  way  to  the  mosquito." 
The  busy  ant  claimed  his  attention;  and  the 
curious  trait  he  records  is  one  that  he  evidently 
had  observed  for  himself:  two  companies  of 
spirits,  passing  each  other  in  opposite  directions, 
and  kissing  as  they  go  by,  seem  to  him 

Like  ants  within  their  dusky  regiment, 

Each  member  touching  noses  with  his  mate, 
Perhaps  to  ask  his  luck,  or  whither  bent. 

The  frog  finds  a  place  in  Dante's  collection. 
Some  of  the  damned,  nearly  covered  by  ice  at  the 
bottom  of  Hell,  suggest  the  frog,  who,  "  in  the 
season  when  the  peasant  woman  often  dreams  of 
gleaning,  seats  himself,  with  his  muzzle  out  of 
the  water,  to  croak."  These  we  have  already 
met,  and  likewise  the  frogs  who  "  scatter  at  the 
hostile  snake's  approach,"  and  all  "  crouch  on  the 
bottom." 

Of  bird  life  the  Divine  Comedy  is  full,  the 
poet's  favorites,  among  feathered  creatures,  being 
falcons,  cranes,  and  doves.  Here  is  a  procession 
of  lost  souls,  borne  through  the  air  by  the  blast 
of  Hell,  like  a  long  flight  of  cranes: 

And  as  the  cranes,  with  doleful  ditty,  surge 
Along  the  air,  in  lengthened  streamer  lined 
Thus  coming  saw  I,  uttering  their  dirge, 

Souls  ever  carried  by  the  self-same  wind. 

[228] 


DICTION 

We  see  the  hawk  released  from  its  hood,  shak- 
ing its  head  and  flapping  its  wings  as  it  prunes 
itself,  revealing  its  eagerness  to  be  off;  the  young 
stork,  which,  impatient  to  fly,  lifts  its  wing,  but 
lowers  it  again,  not  daring  to  leave  the  nest;  the 
daws,  which,  at  daybreak,  begin  to  flutter  all  to- 
gether, to  warm  their  chilly  plumes,  as  is  their 
habit,  some  flying  away  for  good,  some  returning 
to  their  starting-point,  others  wheeling  constantly 
about 

As  Dante  was  ever  disposed  to  look  upward, 
he  watched  the  stars  quite  as  lovingly  as  the  birds. 
Now  he  gives  us  a  picture  of  the  sky  after  sunset, 
when  the  stellar  lights  begin  faintly  to  appear. 

When  evening  first  begins  to  climb  the  blue, 
New  objects  slowly  show  themselves  on  high, 
And  what  we  see  seems  true  and  yet  untrue. 

Now  a  host  of  souls  first  speaking  in  chorus  with 
one  mighty  voice,  then  singing  individually,  is 
compared  to  the  sun,  shining  by  day  with  a  single 
light,  and  after  nightfall  reflected  in  a  host  of 
stars. 

When  he  who,  turning,  all  the  world  doth  light 
Descends  below  and  quits  our  hemisphere, 
And  sunshine  everywhere  gives  way  to  night, 

The  sky,  erstwhile  with  his  effulgence  clear, 
Is  suddenly  restored  to  view  again 
By  many  lamps  which,  lit  by  him,  appear. 

Now  a  bright  angel,   approaching  over  the  sea, 
looks,  to  the  observer  on  the  shore,  like  Mars 
shining  close  to  the  horizon: 
[229] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

We  still  were  motionless  upon  the  shore, 
Like  people  wondering  about  their  way,  — 
When  body  stops,  but  heart  goes  on  before,  — 

And  lo !  as  often  ere  the  break  of  day 

Mars  through  a  mist  sends  forth  a  ruddy  light 
Down  in  the  west,  above  the  level  bay, 

Thus  (as  I  hope  again  to  see  that  sight!) 
A  gleam  came  speeding  o'er  the  sea  so  fast, 
Its  swiftness  went  beyond  the  quickest  flight. 

The  ocean  furnishes  many  beautiful  effects. 
'  The  mortal  sight  of  your  world,"  says  Dante, 
"  can  penetrate  eternal  justice  no  more  than  your 
eye  can  fathom  the  ocean;  for  although  the  eye 
discern  the  bottom  from  the  shore,  it  sees  it  not 
on  the  main;  yet  the  bottom  is  there,  hidden  by  its 
depth."  Embarking  on  the  tale  of  his  journey 
through  Purgatory,  he  begins : 

At  last  the  little  vessel  of  my  mind 
Doth  hoist  its  sails  to  cross  a  better  sea, 
Leaving  that  cruel  ocean  far  behind. 

At  the  outset  of  Dante's  description  of  Heaven, 
we  find  a  majestic  figure : 

O  ye  who,  following  in  little  boats, 
Eager  to  hear,  have  come  so  long  a  way 
Behind  my  ship,  which  singeth  as  it  floats, 

Go  back  and  seek  your  shores  while  yet  ye  may ! 
Tempt  not  the  ocean !     Haply  were  ye  lost, 
If,  losing  trace  of  me,  your  craft  should  stray. 

The  sea  I  enter  never  yet  was  crost. 
Minerva  sends  the  wind,  Apollo  steers, 
Nine  Muses  chart  the  stars  of  polar  frost. 

Ye  others,  few,  who  turned  in  early  years 
To  eat  the  holy  bread  that  angels  keep, 

[230] 


DICTION 

Which  feedeth  men,  but  always  scant  appears, 
Well  may  ye  venture  on  the  salty  deep, 
If  but  your  skiff  run  close  upon  my  wake 
Before  the  sea  resumes  its  level  sleep. 

[From  Dante,  pp.  231-232.] 

We  may  conclude  our  brief  survey  of  meta- 
phors, or  rhetorical  colors,  with  this  picture  of  a 
storm : 

Already  swept  the  turbid  waters  o'er 
The  turmoil  of  an  uproar  full  of  fright, 
Which  made  a  shiver  run  thro'  either  shore. 

Its  course  was  like  a  furious  storm-wind's  flight, 
By  heat  and  cold  at  odds  made  over-strong, 
Which  unobstructed  doth  the  forest  smite ; 

The  boughs  it  strips  and  breaks  and  spins  along. 
Forward  it  fares  in  all  its  dusty  pride, 
And  beasts  and  shepherds  run,  a  fearful  throng. 

You  may  have  been  surprised,  in  the  first  of 
my  quotations  to-day,  to  hear  an  invocation  of 
Apollo  and  the  Muses  by  the  foremost  of  Chris- 
tian poets.  Theologians  were  apt  to  regard  the 
pagan  deities  as  devils,  fallen  angels,  who  had 
beguiled  men  to  worship  them.  Dante  himself 
seems  to  have  interpreted  in  this  fashion  some  of 
the  figures  of  ancient  mythology,  especially  those 
associated  with  the  lower  world.  Others,  like 
Apollo  and  the  Muses,  were  for  him  mere  poetic 
abstractions.  Jupiter  represented  the  heathen's 
vague  conception  of  the  Godhead.  Some  of  the 
ancient  divinities,  such  as  Venus,  were  invented, 
he  thought,  to  explain  the  influence  of  the  stars. 
"  The  world,"  he  says,  in  the  Paradiso,  "used  to 
believe,  to  its  peril,  that  the  fair  goddess  of 

[231  ] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

Cyprus  radiated  mad  passion,  as  she  revolved  in 
the  third  epicycle.  Wherefore  the  people  of  old, 
in  their  old  error,  not  only  did  honor  to  her,  with 
sacrifice  and  votive  shout,  but  they  honored  Dione 
[her  mother]  and  Cupid  [her  son] ;  and  they 
went  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  sat  in  Dido's  lap. 
And  from  her,  with  whom  I  begin  this  canto,  they 
took  the  name  of  the  star  which  is  wooed  by  the 
sun,  now  before,  now  behind."  The  story  of 
Cupid,  disguised  as  Ascanius,  sitting  in  the  lap  of 
Dido,  is  told  by  the  wise  Virgil  himself. 

We  do  not  know  just  how  far  Dante  thought 
that  Virgil  and  Ovid  actually  believed  in  the 
supernatural  tales  they  told,  how  far  they  con- 
sidered their  divinities  and  their  narratives  to  be 
mere  allegorical  and  rhetorical  inventions.  At 
any  rate,  he  felt  himself  quite  free  to  use  the 
mythological  apparatus  without  compunction,  with 
no  more  fear  than  had  Boileau,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  of  being  called  a  pagan.  When  occasion 
required,  he  altered  the  semblance  or  the  character 
of  the  traditional  figures,  giving  Charon,  for  in- 
stance, rings  of  fire  around  his  eyes,  and  making 
Cerberus,  with  his  three  mouths,  the  embodiment 
of  vile  gluttony.  Plutus,  god  of  riches,  is  turned 
into  an  inflated,  clucking  hobgoblin,  which,  at 
Virgil's  speech,  collapses  into  a  helpless  heap. 
"  As  wind-puffed  sails,  when  the  mast  snaps, 
tumble  in  a  tangled  pile,  so  dropt  to  earth  that 
cruel  beast."  The  kingly  Minos,  who  after  death 
became  a  judge  of  departed  souls,  is  transformed 
by  Dante  into  a  demon  with  a  long  tail,  which  he 

[  232  ] 


DICTION 

winds  around  and  around  himself  in  such  a  way 
as  to  indicate  the  stage  of  Hell  to  which  each  soul 
is  condemned.  '  There  sits  Minos  horrid  and 
snarling;  he  examines  the  sins  at  the  entrance, 
judges  and  sentences  according  as  he  coils.  I 
mean  that  when  the  ill-born  soul  comes  before 
him,  it  confesses  everything;  and  that  expert  in 
evil,  determining  what  part  of  Hell  befits  it, 
girdles  himself  with  his  tail  as  many  times  as  the 
steps  down  which  the  spirit  is  to  go." 

Not  very  literally,  then,  did  Dante  take  the 
mythology  of  the  ancients.  To  the  poets,  whom 
he  regarded  as  enlightened  beyond  other  men, 
he  was  inclined  to  attribute  some  inkling  of  re- 
ligious truth,  which,  from  time  to  time,  shows 
dimly  through  their  fables.  Thus,  when  the 
Latin  sages  wrote  of  the  Golden  Age  and  the 
original  innocence  of  mankind,  they  may  have  had 
a  vague  concept  of  the  Garden  of  Eden  and  the 
state  of  Adam  and  Eve  before  the  fall.  So  says 
Matilda,  the  beauteous  keeper  of  the  Earthly 
Paradise,  through  which  she  is  leading  Dante  with 
Virgil  and  Statius.  "  '  Those  poets  who  of  old 
sang  of  the  Golden  Age  and  its  happy  state,  per- 
haps on  their  Parnassus  were  dreaming  of  this 
spot.  Here  it  was  that  the  human  stock  was 
innocent;  here  is  the  eternal  springtime,  here  is 
every  fruit.  This  is  the  nectar,  whereof  they  all 
tell.'  At  that,  I  turned  all  the  way  around  and 
faced  my  poets;  and  I  saw  that  they  had  received 
her  last  sentence  with  a  smile." 

Not   content   with   the    traditional   poetic   my- 

[  233  1 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

thology,  the  allegorizing  Middle  Ages  cherished 
a  sort  of  intellectual,  prosaic  mythology  of  their 
own.  For  example,  the  seven  planetary  heavens, 
which  by  the  ancients  had  been  turned  into  gods 
and  goddesses,  we  find  expounded  by  Dante,  in 
the  Banquet,  as  symbols  of  the  seven  liberal 
arts,  Grammar,  Dialectics,  Rhetoric,  Arithmetic, 
Music,  Geometry,  and  Astrology.  The  sky  of  the 
fixed  stars  stands  for  Physics  and  Metaphysics. 
The  ninth  and  last  revolving  heaven,  the  Crystal- 
line, which  envelops  all  the  rest  of  the  material 
universe,  signifies  Ethics.  The  Empyrean,  or 
heaven  of  spirit,  the  real  Paradise,  represents 
Theology.  Now  the  third  among  the  planetary 
spheres  is  that  of  Venus,  the  fair  Goddess  of 
Cyprus,  of  whom  we  were  speaking  but  a  moment 
ago;  and  her  heaven  is  the  symbol  of  the  third 
liberal  art,  which  is  Rhetoric.  '  The  heaven  of 
Venus,"  explains  Dante,  "  may  be  compared  to 
Rhetoric,  on  account  of  two  properties :  one  is  the 
clearness  of  its  face,  which  is  pleasanter  to  see 
than  any  other  star;  the  other  is  its  appearance 
now  in  the  morning,  now  in  the  evening.  And 
these  two  properties  are  to  be  found  in  Rhetoric. 
For  Rhetoric  is  more  pleasing  than  any  other 
science,  because  that  is  its  principal  purpose.  It 
appears  in  the  morning,  when  the  rhetorician 
speaks  before  the  eyes  of  his  hearer;  it  appears 
in  the  evening,  when  the  speech  is  made  by  the 
rhetorician  at  a  distance,  in  writing." 

The  rhetorical  authorities  most  respected  in  the 
Middle  Ages  were  Aristotle  and  Cicero,  both  of 

[  234  ] 


DICTION 

whom  are  cited  by  Dante.  In  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury not  only  Rhetoric  but  also  Dialectics  and 
Logic  had  come  to  the  fore  in  the  universities. 
Possibly  the  study  of  Rhetoric  strengthened  the 
natural  leaning  of  the  Middle  Ages  toward  im- 
personality in  writing,  and  maintained  that  tend- 
ency even  in  an  author  of  such  powerful  individu- 
ality as  Dante.  Perhaps,  if  he  had  never  studied 
Rhetoric,  he  would  have  left  us,  in  his  two  spiritual 
autobiographies  (the  New  Life  and  the  Divine 
Comedy),  some  account  of  his  material  life.  As 
it  is,  he  never  mentions  his  children,  his  wife,  his 
brother;  of  his  parents  he  says  only  that  they 
spoke  Italian;  there  seems  to  be  in  one  passage 
of  the  Vita  Nuova  an  indefinite  reference  to  one 
of  his  two  sisters.  That  is  all  he  has  to  say  of  his 
immediate  family.  Of  the  events  of  his  career 
there  is  scarcely  more.  "  It  is  not  admitted  by  the 
rhetoricians,"  he  states,  "  that  anyone  may  without 
necessity  speak  of  himself."  The  reason,  as  he 
goes  on  to  explain,  is  that  we  cannot  speak  of 
ourselves  without  either  praising,  which  is  un- 
becoming, or  blaming,  which  is  still  more  shame- 
ful. Petrarch,  in  theory,  had  the  same  views ;  for 
in  one  of  his  letters  he  declares:  "I  leave  aside 
domestic  matters,  about  which  you  wrote  me  at 
some  length,  inasmuch  as  they  are  not  worthy  of 
being  treated  in  a  noble  style."  On  the  whole,  it 
is  likely  that  Dante  got  from  his  poring  over 
rhetorical  problems  more  benefit  than  detriment, 
although  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  the  conscious, 
studied  workmanship  is  in  the  Divina  Commedia 

[235] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

a  more  effective  factor  than  the  spontaneous,  sub- 
conscious artistry.  Still,  it  is  quite  impossible  to 
separate  these  two,  in  Dante  or  in  anyone  else. 
Whether  he  would,  without  the  pursuit  of  Rheto- 
ric, have  written  a  better  or  a  worse  poem,  we 
cannot  say.  At  any  rate,  no  one  would  wish  it 
different. 

"  I  declare,"  says  the  author  of  the  Banquet, 
"  that  the  goodness  and  the  beauty  of  any  dis- 
course are  distinct  and  different  from  each  other. 
For  the  goodness  is  in  the  meaning,  and  the  beauty 
in  the  ornateness  of  the  words,  both  being  de- 
lightful, although  the  delight  of  goodness  is 
greatest."  '  The  ornateness  of  the  words " 
seems  to  be  Dante's  definition  of  what  was  gener- 
ally called  "  eloquence,"  an  art  frequently  dis- 
cussed by  the  scholars  of  his  time.  In  the  four- 
teenth century  a  favorite  subject  of  debate  was  the 
question  whether  Cicero  or  Virgil  was  the  more 
eloquent  writer.  Petrarch,  in  one  place  and  an- 
other, has  much  to  say  about  poetry;  and  nearly 
all  the  things  he  says  could  just  as  well  be  said 
about  prose.  What  he  and  his  contemporaries 
most  appreciated  in  prose  and  verse,  from  an 
aesthetic  point  of  view,  was  this  same  eloquence. 
Dante's  treatise  on  versification  in  the  vulgar 
tongue  is  named  De  Vulgan  Eloqncntia,  u  On 
Vernacular  Eloquence."  Eloquence  is  the  idiom 
of  poetry;  but  it  is  also  the  idiom  of  prose.  What 
it  means  essentially  is  style.  "  Our  beloved 
Cicero,"  wrote  Petrarch,  "  is  beyond  doubt  the 
father  of  Latin  eloquence.  Next  to  him  comes 

[236] 


DICTION 

Virgil;  or,  perhaps,  since  there  are  some  who  dis- 
like the  order  in  which  I  place  them,  I  had  better 
say  that  Tully  and  Maro  are  the  two  parents  of 
Roman  literature."  The  failure  to  make  any 
clear  distinction  between  prose  and  verse  style  we 
find  again,  centuries  later,  in  some  of  the  Neo- 
Classicists. 

The  illustrious  vernacular,  declares  Dante,  is 
to  be  used  in  prose  as  well  as  in  verse ;  but  in  verse 
it  has  to  be  employed  with  more  originality,  be- 
cause prose  writers  naturally  copy  their  prede- 
cessors. We  may  perhaps  assume  that  poetry 
demands  a  higher  degree  of  eloquence.  But  even 
in  verse  there  are  several  grades:  in  the  subjects 
that  suggest  themselves  we  must  use  judgment  in 
deciding  whether  they  are  to  be  sung  tragically, 
comically,  or  elegiacally.  "  By  tragedy,"  he  says, 
"we  mean  the  higher  style,  by  comedy  the 
lower,  by  elegy  we  understand  the  style  of  the 
wretched.  If  things  seem  worthy  of  being  sung 
tragically,  we  must  take  up  the  illustrious  verna- 
cular, and  consequently  construct  an  ode.  But  if 
they  are  to  be  sung  comically,  the  middling,  some- 
times the  lowly  vernacular  is  to  be  assumed.  .  .  . 
But  if  they  are  suited  to  elegiac  song,  only  the 
lowly  vernacular  must  be  used.  However,  let  us 
pass  over  the  others;  and  now,  as  is  fitting,  let  us 
deal  with  the  tragic  style.  We  may  be  said  to  use 
the  tragic  style  when  the  majesty  of  the  lines,  the 
high  quality  of  the  construction,  and  the  excellence 
of  the  words  harmonize  with  the  gravity  of  the 
subject." 

[  237] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

This,  then,  is  the  highest  degree  of  poetic  elo- 
quence :  a  combination  of  elegant  versification  with 
choice  vocabulary.  This  is  the  "  tragic  style."  It 
is  to  be  noted  that,  to  Dante's  generation,  the 
words  tragedy  and  comedy  generally  conveyed  no 
idea  of  drama :  they  signified  respectively  noble 
and  familiar  composition  and,  at  the  same  time, 
tales  with  unhappy  and  with  happy  endings. 
Tragedy  was  used  especially  to  designate  a  story 
of  the  downfall  of  a  great  personage.  Comedy, 
therefore,  may  naturally  indicate  an  account  of  a 
rise  from  low  to  high  estate.  Dante's  great  poem 
was  called  by  him  a  Commedia;  the  epithet 
"  Divine  "  was  added  by  admiring  posterity.  And 
he  called  it  a  Comedy  by  reason  both  of  its  style 
and  of  its  subject.  At  least,  so  we  are  told  in  the 
Epistle  to  Can  Grande,  which  is  probably  what 
it  purports  to  be,  an  authentic  letter  of  Dante  to 
his  patron. 

It  is  likely  that  Dante  seized  with  alacrity  upon 
the  distinction  between  tragedy  and  comedy,  in 
order  to  fortify  himself  with  a  reason  for  using 
in  the  Divina  Commedia  whatsoever  style  suited 
the  moment,  instead  of  maintaining  the  language 
at  a  constant  pitch  of  monotonous  eloquence.  This 
elevation  he  had  to  sustain,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
in  his  regular  odes;  but  what  can  advantageously 
be  done  in  a  poem  of  a  few  stanzas  may  well  be 
quite  impracticable  in  a  lengthy  composition.  Vir- 
gil, to  be  sure,  kept  up  the  noble  tone  throughout 
the  /Eneid;  that  work,  however,  was  written  in 
grammatica,  or  Latin,  in  which  eloquence  is  easier. 
[238] 


DICTION 

Nevertheless  Virgil  was,  in  fact  as  well  as 
in  the  fictitious  journey,  Dante's  guide  and  master. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  Hell,  when,  after  vainly 
attempting  to  pass  the  three  beasts  which  bar  his 
way  up  the  mountain,  Dante  is  falling  back  into 
the  depths,  there  appears  before  him  a  shape  that 
looks  "  faint  from  long  silence."  Seeing  this  form 
in  the  midst  of  the  great  waste,  he  calls  out: 
"  Have  pity  on  me,  whatever  thou  be,  shadow  or 
real  man." 

Quand'  io  vidi  costui  nel  gran  diserto, 
"  Miserere  di  me,"  gridai  a  lui, 
"  Qual  che  tu  sii,  od  ombra  od  uomo  certo!  " 

Virgil  replies:  "Not  a  man;  I  was  a  man  once, 
and  my  parents  were  Lombards,  Mantuans  both 
by  birth.  I  was  born  under  Julius  Caesar,  though 
late  in  his  rule;  and  I  lived  in  Rome  under  good 
Augustus,  in  the  time  of  false  and  lying  gods.  I 
was  a  poet,  and  sang  of  that  just  son  of  Anchises 
who  came  from  Troy,  after  proud  Ilium  was 
burned.  But  thou,  why  art  thou  returning  to  such 
distress?  Why  dost  thou  not  climb  the  delectable 
mountain  which  is  the  source  and  cause  of  all 
joy?"  Overwhelmed  at  finding  himself  face  to 
face  with  the  great  master,  "  '  Now  art  thou  that 
Virgil,  that  spring  which  spreads  abroad  such  a 
wide  river  of  eloquence?  '  I  replied  to  him  with 
brow  abashed.  '  O  honor  and  light  of  other  poets, 
let  me  reap  the  reward  of  my  long  study  and  of  the 
great  love  that  hath  made  me  seek  out  thy  book. 
Thou  art  my  master,  my  model.  From  thee  alone 

[239] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

did  I  derive  that  beauteous  style  which  hath  won 
me  honor.'  ' 

"  Or  se'  tu  quel  Virgilio,  e  quella  fonte 
Che  spande  di  parlar  si  largo  fiume?  " 
Risposi  lui  con  vergognosa  fronte. 

"  O  degli  altri  poeti  onore  e  lume, 

Vagliami  il  lungo  studio  e  il  grande  amore 
Che  m'  ha  fatto  cercar  lo  tuo  volume. 

Tu  se'  lo  mio  maestro  e  il  mio  autore ; 
Tu  se'  solo  colui  da  cui  io  tolsi 
Lo  bello  stile  che  m'  ha  fatto  onore." 

'  That  beauteous  style  which  hath  won  me 
honor :  "  just  what  did  Dante  mean  by  "  beauteous 
style"?  Some  critics  have  thought  he  meant  the 
proper  choice  of  words,  some  have  suggested  that 
what  he  had  in  mind  was  allegory.  It  is  to  be 
observed  that  Dante  is  referring  to  a  benefit  al- 
ready enjoyed,  for  he  says,  "  Lo  bello  stile  che 
m'  ha  fatto  onore,"  "  the  beauteous  style  which 
hath  won  me  honor;  "  therefore  he  must  be  speak- 
ing, not  of  the  Divine  Comedy,  which  he  is  just 
beginning,  but  of  works  previously  published  and 
applauded,  particularly,  no  doubt,  his  odes,  writ- 
ten in  the  tragic  or  higher  style.  Let  me  repeat 
Dante's  definition  of  that  style:  "  We  may  be  said 
to  use  the  tragic  style,"  he  says,  "  when  the  majesty 
of  the  lines,  the  high  quality  of  the  construction, 
and  the  excellence  of  the  words  harmonize  with 
the  gravity  of  the  subject." 

The  phrase   "  majesty  of  the  lines,"  superbia 
carminiim,  undoubtedly  signifies  a  preponderance 
of  eleven-syllable  verses;  for  the  author  himself 
[  240] 


DICTION 

says,  a  little  further  on:  "Of  all  these  lines,  the 
eleven-syllable  is  manifestly  the  most  majestic, 
both  in  the  time  it  consumes  and  in  its  capacity 
for  meaning,  construction,  and  vocabulary."  By 
"  the  high  quality  of  the  construction,"  construe- 
tlonis  elatio,  he  seems  to  mean  periodic  sentence- 
structure,  which,  he  declares,  is  favored  by  the  use 
of  the  long  eleven-syllable  line.  The  third  factor, 
"  excellence  of  the  words,"  excellentia  vocabu- 
lorum,  or  choice  diction,  is  also,  in  his  opinion,  best 
cultivated  in  the  long  line.  Now,  of  these  three 
elements,  it  was  presumably  the  third,  "  excellence 
of  the  words,"  that  gained  most  from  Virgil's 
example.  His  influence  may  have  been  consider- 
able, also,  in  the  second,  "high  quality  of  con- 
struction;" and  even  in  the  first,  "majesty  of  the 
lines,"  his  use  of  the  hexameter  may  have  been  one 
cause  of  Dante's  preference  for  the  longest  Italian 
verse  that  he  knew.  In  this  definition  there  is  no 
place  for  allegory.  Of  course  Dante  attached  the 
highest  value  to  allegory,  and  regarded  Virgil  as 
a  great  allegorist;  but,  although  he  employed 
allegory  in  some  of  his  odes,  he  probably  did  not 
include  it  in  the  phrase  bello  stile.  In  his  discourse 
on  allegory,  in  the  Banquet,  Dante  cites  as  a 
secular  example,  not  Virgil,  but  Ovid.  Neverthe- 
less, when  he  came  to  construct  the  symbolic  frame- 
work of  the  Divine  Comedy,  it  was  Virgil  rather 
than  Ovid  that  he  followed. 

I  said  that  the  words  "  the  beauteous  style 
which  hath  won  me  honor  "  must  refer  to  Dante's 
past  writings,  not  to  the  crowning  one  which  is 

[241] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

just  at  its  inception.  This  does  not  mean  that  Vir- 
gil's influence  ceased,  or  that  it  is  less  conspicuous 
in  the  great  poem  than  in  the  smaller  ones.  Quite 
the  contrary  is  true.  Having  found  the  master's 
teaching  so  profitable  in  his  lyrics,  Dante  follows 
it  still  more  clearly  in  his  grand  Commedia.  Over 
this  the  genius  of  the  ^Eneid  most  unmistakably 
presides.  If  we  consider  the  "majesty  of  the 
lines,"  we  find  that  in  the  Comedy,  not  only  most 
of  the  verses,  but  virtually  all,  are  of  eleven 
syllables.  As  for  "  high  quality  of  construction," 
the  periods  in  the  Comedy  are,  on  the  average, 
more  fully  rounded,  ampler,  and  more  supple  than 
those  of  the  odes.  With  regard  to  "  excellence 
of  words  "  the  superiority  of  the  long  poem  in 
Virgilian  quality  is  most  striking :  whereas  the  odes 
reveal  in  their  choice  of  words  only  the  general 
Virgilian  principle  of  fitness  and  elegance,  the 
Comedy  displays  in  countless  passages  a  direct 
borrowing  of  vocabulary,  as  well  as  of  metaphor 
and  incident,  from  the  JEneid.  Dante  had,  then, 
good  reason  to  love  and  revere  Virgil  as  a  friend 
and  teacher. 

"  Poet  that  guidest  me,"  I  then  did  say, 

"  Consider  well  my  strength  (can  it  suffice?) 
Ere  thou  consign  me  to  the  mighty  way." 

After  Virgil  has  stilled  his  disciple's  doubts,  we 
hear  the  cry  of  readiness  and  trust: 

'  Thy  words  so  potently  my  heart  have  bent 
With  eagerness  my  journey  to  pursue 
That  I  return  to  this,  my  first  intent. 
[242  ] 


DICTION 

Now  go!  a  single  will  is  in  us  two. 

Thou  guide,  thou  lord  and  master!  "    Thus  I  pray. 

And  when  he  forward  stept,  my  leader  true, 
I  entered  on  the  deep  and  woody  way. 

"  Tu  m'hai  con  desiderio  il  cor  disposto 
Si  al  venir  con  le  parole  tue 
Ch'  io  son  tomato  nel  primo  proposto. 

Or  va',  che  un  sol  volere  e  d'ambedue: 
Tu  duca,  tu  signore  e  tu  maestro." 
Cosi  gli  dissi ;  e  poi  che  mosso  fue, 

Entrai  per  lo  cammino  alto  e  silvestro. 

Dante's  feeling  toward  Virgil  is  reflected  in  the 
attitude  of  the  Latin  poet  Statius,  whose  shade, 
just  released  from  penance,  is  met  during  the  pas- 
sage upward  through  Purgatory.  His  art  and 
inspiration,  he  avers,  even  his  reform  and  con- 
version and  consequently  his  salvation,  he  owes  to 
the  sEneid  and  the  Eclogues.  The  sEneid,  "  that 
divine  flame  which  hath  illumined  more  than  a 
thousand,"  was  his  "  mother  and  nurse  in  poesy." 
It  was  a  sentence  in  this  poem  that  first  made  him 
aware  that  prodigality,  to  which  he  was  addicted, 
is  a  sin,  and  thus  led  him  to  correct  himself.  It 
was  a  prophecy  in  the  fourth  Eclogue  that  first 
opened  his  eyes  to  Christianity.  All  this  he  tells  to 
Virgil  himself,  whose  identity  he  does  not  suspect. 
Then  he  exclaims: 

"  Could  I  have  lived  when  Virgil  was  alive, 
My  just  completed  term  of  banishment 
For  one  full  year  I  gladly  would  revive." 

Virgil,  at  this,  his  gaze  upon  me  bent 

With  lips  that  in  their  silence  said  :  "  Be  still !  " 
But  human  will  is  not  omnipotent; 

[243  ] 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

For  smiles  and  tears  so  instantly  fulfill 

The  hest  of  every  feeling  whence  they  flow, 
In  truthful  men  they  least  obey  the  will. 

I  smiled,  like  those  who  secret  knowledge  show. 
The  shade  stopt  short  and  lookt  me  in  the  eyes, 
The  eyes,  which  best  reveal  the  heart  below. 

"  Now,  by  the  outcome  of  thy  great  emprise, 
Say  why,  erstwhile,  as  I  thy  visage  scanned, 
My  glance  a  flash  of  laughter  did  surprise." 

Now  am  I  caught  on  one  and  t'  other  hand  : 
One  calls  for  silence,  t'  other  calls  for  speech ! 
I  heave  a  sigh ;  my  Sage  doth  understand : 

"  Fear  not,"  he  saith  to  me,  "  the  truth  to  teach. 
Speak  boldly  and  divulge,  at  my  behest, 
What  Statius  doth  so  earnestly  beseech." 

Wherefore  I  said :  "  Perhaps  thou  wonderest, 
O  ancient  spirit,  at  my  laughing  face. 
With  greater  wonder  thou  shalt  be  imprest ! 

This  shade,  which  upward  guides  my  mortal  pace, 
Is  Virgil,  in  whose  verses  thou  hast  found 
The  power  to  sing  of  gods  and  human  race. 

If  thou  my  laugh  didst  otherwise  expound, 
Give  up  thine  explanation  as  unmeet. 
The  speech  of  Virgil  was  the  real  ground." 

Swiftly  he  bowed  to  clasp  my  leader's  feet; 
But  Virgil  cried :  "  O  brother,  do  not  bend ! 
For  thou  art  shadow;  shadow  thou  dost  greet." 

He  rose  and  said :  "  Now  canst  thou  comprehend 
The  greatness  of  mine  ardent  love  for  thee, 
When  I  to  shadows  fleshly  substance  lend, 

Forgetting  our  unbodied  vanity." 

[From  Dante,  pp.  344-345.] 

To  the  personage  of  Statius  our  poet  probably 
ascribed  some  of  his  own  traits,  and  much  that  he 
here  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  ancient  Latin 
surely  represents  Dante's  own  sentiment  and  ex- 

[244] 


DICTION 

perience.  His  regret  at  not  having  been  a  con- 
temporary of  Virgil  is  spoken  in  this  instance  by 
Statius;  but  he  himself  indirectly  expresses  the 
same  thought  when  he  cries  out  in  sorrow,  on  find- 
ing that  his  guide  has  left  him.  It  is  in  the  Garden 
of  Eden,  and  Dante,  absorbed  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  Beatrice,  whom  he  has  just  recognized, 
turns  impulsively  to  communicate  his  great  joy 
to  his  master;  but  discovers  that  he  is  gone.  The 
poet's  face,  which  has  been  washed  clean  with  dew, 
is  again  stained  with  tears,  despite  all  the  charms 
of  Eden  —  Eden,  once  sacrificed  by  mother  Eve. 
"  I  turned  to  the  left,  with  that  expectation  with 
which  the  little  boy  runs  to  his  mother,  when  he 
is  frightened  or  in  trouble,  meaning  to  say  to  Vir- 
gil: '  Not  a  drachm  of  blood  is  left  in  me  which  is 
not  a-quiver.  I  recognize  the  tokens  of  the  old 
fire.'  But  Virgil  had  left  me  bereft  of  him  - 
Virgil,  sweetest  father  —  Virgil,  to  whom  I  gave 
myself  for  my  salvation.  And  all  that  our  ancient 
mother  threw  away  could  not  prevent  my  dew- 
cleansed  cheeks  from  turning  dark  again  with 
tears." 

Only  in  imagination  can  Dante  consort  with 
Virgil.  What  a  comfort,  what  a  delight  would 
have  been  his  companionship  in  the  flesh!  But 
Virgil's  place  is  among  the  dead,  Dante's  among 
the  living.  And  not  even  after  death  can  the 
disciple  meet  the  master;  for  the  one  is  destined 
to  dwell  in  Heaven,  while  the  other,  a  pagan,  must 
forever  dwell  below.  All  this,  I  think,  is  implied 
in  the  brief  parting.  If  Dante,  like  Petrarch, 

[245] 


THE   POWER   OF   DANTE 

had  hit  upon  the  idea  of  writing  letters  to  the 
dead,  he  surely  would  have  addressed  an  epistle 
to  the  poet  whom  he  so  cherished;  but  he  had  not 
that  solace. 

Before  Virgil  departs,  however,  he  bestows 
upon  Dante  an  assurance  of  proficiency,  a  solemn 
declaration  that  the  'prentice,  now  become  a 
master,  needs  no  other  direction  than  his  own  will. 
Of  course  the  reference  is  to  the  conduct  of 
Dante's  spiritual  life;  but  the  words  may  be  ap- 
plied in  all  truth  to  his  stylistic  training  and  gradu- 
ation. '  The  temporal  and  the  eternal  fire  hast 
thou  seen,  my  son,"  says  Virgil,  —  that  is,  the  fire 
of  Purgatory,  which  is  but  for  a  season,  and  the 
fire  of  Hell,  which  lasts  forever;  "  and  thou  art 
come  to  a  place  where  I,  by  my  own  effort,  can 
see  no  further.  I  have  led  thee  hither  by  wit 
and  art.  Now  take  thine  own  pleasure  as  guide. 
Thou  hast  emerged  from  the  steep  paths  and 
from  the  narrow  ones.  Behold  yonder  the  sun, 
which  shines  upon  thy  brow;  see  the  new  grass, 
the  flowers,  the  shrubs,  which  the  soil  here  pro- 
duces of  itself.  Until  those  beauteous  eyes,  - 
which,  weeping,  moved  me  to  come  to  thee,  — 
shall  come  in  gladness  [until  Beatrice  shall  come 
to  seek  thee],  thou  mayest  sit  and  walk  amidst 
them.  No  longer  await  my  word  or  my  sign. 
Free,  upright,  and  whole  is  thy  will,  and  it  would 
be  wrong  not  to  follow  its  judgment.  Wherefore 
I  crown  and  mitre  thee  over  thyself  [I  make  thee 
thine  own  emperor  and  pope,  arbiter  of  thy 
worldly  and  religious  life]." 
[246] 


DICTION 

E  disse :  "  II  temporal  fuoco  e  1*  eterno 
Veduto  hai,  figlio,  e  sei  venuto  in  parte 
Dov'  io  per  me  piu  oltre  non  discerno. 

Tratto  t'  ho  qui  con  ingegno  e  con  arte ; 
Lo  tuo  piacere  omai  prendi  per  duce. 
Fuor  sei  dell'  erte  vie,  fuor  sei  dell'  arte. 

Vedi  la  il  sol  che  in  fronte  ti  riluce ; 
Vedi  1'  erbetta,  i  fiori  e  gli  arbuscelli, 
Che  qui  la  terra  sol  da  se  produce. 

Mentre  che  vegnan  lieti  gli  occhi  belli 
Che,  lagrimando,  a  te  venir  mi  fenno, 
Seder  ti  puoi  e  puoi  andar  tra  elli. 

Non  aspettar  mio  dir  piu,  ne  mio  cenno: 
Libero,  dritto  e  sano  e  tuo  arbitrio, 
E  fallo  fora  non  fare  a  suo  senno ; 

Per  ch'  io  te  sopra  te  corono  e  mitrio." 

Here  we  have  indeed  an  admirable  specimen  of 
the  "  bello  stile."  The  lines  are  not  only  "  ma- 
jestic," but  grandly  rhythmical  and  full  of  subtly 
charming  assonances  (such  as  "  E  fallo  fora  non 
fare  a  suo  senno").  The  "quality  of  construc- 
tion" is  as  high  as  Dante  can  make  it:  the  sen- 
tences are  built  with  exquisite  balance,  fluent  and 
perfectly  clear,  each  complete  in  its  own  tiercet; 
of  the  sixteen  clauses,  half  show  the  typical  prose 
order,  half  show  a  normal  rhetorical  inversion; 
nowhere  is  there  anything  like  unnatural  dis- 
tortion, nowhere  any  evidence  of  the  constraint  of 
verse.  The  words  are  excellently  sweet,  both  in 
their  sound  and  in  their  connotation:  the  line 
"  Fuor  sei  dell'  erte  vie,  fuor  sei  dell'  arte," 
'  Thou  hast  emerged  from  the  steep  paths  and  the 
narrow  ones,"  shows  an  ingenious  play  on  the 
words  erte,  "  steep,"  and  arte,  "  narrow,"  this 

[247  1 


THE    POWER   OF   DANTE 

latter  being  a  pure  Latinism.  At  the  close  we 
have  in  rime  the  dignified  and  impressive  arbitrio 
and  mitrio.  Let  this  example  of  our  poet's 
"  beauteous  style  "  be  our  parting  word.  After 
this  speech,  the  best  I  can  do  is  to  leave  you  alone 
with  Dante. 

Await  my  word  no  more,  for  here  I  halt. 

Free-willed  your  judgment  is,  and  just  and  true; 

To  follow  not  its  faith  would  be  a  fault. 
Your  crown  and  mitre  shall  be  worn  by  you. 


[248] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  L.IBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

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